Enough
by Elise May
Summary: She is so heavy – but when he touches her, she's light.
1. Chapter 1

_Thanks to Nick and Carla finally getting their act together, it seems my ability to write has returned! This is just a short follow on from their last scene in Friday's episode, which I don't think I'm going to get over. Like, ever._

* * *

 **Enough**

* * *

 _"I will hurt you in the end, you know."_

 _"I'll take my chances."_

* * *

She sighs and he feels it. He feels it where she lay her head against his chest in the early hours of the morning, when no words were spoken, lips too busy to give promises a chance. She feels warm against him, and this comes as no surprise, for she isn't as cold as she makes herself out to be, though her feet were when they woke him, colder than he had imagined; and of course he had done just that. Of course he had gone and imagined _everything_.

And of course his imaginings had paled in comparison to the real thing.

Carla's eyes burn. She can't see, but she doesn't panic. She blinks until the sensation is gone; her cheeks wet, her heart heavy. She breathes deeply. He is holding her in his arms, swaying her from one side to the other, calming her insides in a way that makes her never want to let go of him. And it's like he knows, because the embrace tightens and his breath is against her hair, and it's like last night all over again except he doesn't have to leave her in the morning, and this time she doesn't even want him to.

His lips ghost over her ear and it takes all the strength she has left within herself not to fall apart there and then.

Relief swells in her chest until her throat closes up and speech is something that is truly unattainable to her – but not to Nick.

"We should go inside."

They've been holding each other for a matter of minutes, but it could so easily have been hours. Days, weeks.

He pulls away from her so slowly that she almost doesn't let him. She manages a small smile that is as genuine as the way his eyes are all over her face; checking, searching. Making sure this is what she wants, not realising it is what she needs. Shaking fingers brush away her tears and he doesn't make a thing of it. He doesn't embarrass her like that, he wouldn't even dare. They just look at each other, the silence stretching on for perhaps a moment too long before it is broken by the sound of her lips against his. A lingering kiss.

Their fingers find each other and hold on tightly.

"Come on, then," she whispers.

They take their time as they walk up to her flat. They pass his door on the way and Carla almost stops in front of it. She almost begs him to leave her whilst he still can, to go home and forget about whatever this is before it gets given a name and a place in an organ that should only be used to pump blood and they'll be no going back for either of them.

But she doesn't. Because she can't, because she fears it is already too late.

It is Nick who opens the door to her flat. Her keys are in his hand, taken from the left pocket of her coat where he knows they are always kept, and there is something really comforting about the way he drops them down onto her coffee table, about the way he shuts her door behind her, watching as she slumps herself against it, his expression wondrous as he bends down to remove his shoes.

She is so heavy – but when he touches her, she's light.

"You don't have to do that," she says to him.

But he has already taken them off.

"Tea? Coffee?"

It takes her a moment to realise that he has moved into the kitchen.

"Nick, don't."

She follows him, taking his hands from the kettle and placing them on her hips instead. She leans into him again. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is shallow. She rests her head against his shoulder and lets him kiss the top of her head; his fingers sliding around her waist to meet at the small of her back.

She wants her coat off and she wants it off now.

She opens her eyes to boxes. Her life is in boxes at their feet and Nick must know what she is thinking because he has taken her over to the couch where they are no longer in view, the couch upon which they first made love. And it wasn't slow. And it wasn't what she had been expecting. But as they lay together afterwards – her body limp, her eyes drooping, and he kissed each of her fingers like they meant more to him than her entire existence means to her – something inside her snapped. What was only a dull ache before became an open wound that no amount of LA sunshine would ever have been able to fix.

No amount of LA sunshine would ever have been able to fix her problems, but that knowledge doesn't hurt her now as much as it did an hour ago.

God, she wasn't lying when she said she was tired.

"Then sleep," Nick whispers.

His lips are at her ear again and her legs are on top of his. They are holding each other so tightly that Carla is finding it difficult to breathe because it's too much and it's too little, but it feels like enough. _He_ feels like enough.

She wants him to take her to bed. She wants him to make her forget herself, to make her feel like she's worth something to someone, someone who has come to be worth more to her than she could ever have imagined.

And imagine she has.

Instead, he lets her sleep.

* * *

And when she wakes, he is there with her.

He has moved her to her bed. He has removed her bag and her coat and her shoes, placing her underneath the duvet and himself on top of it. She aches for him. She aches for his fingers to touch her skin instead of her hair, for his eyes to open and tell her what he can't yet say.

He shifts beside her. She knows he is awake.

"I'm sorry about this morning."

Why does her voice sound so broken?

"No, I'm sorry."

He turns to face her. _His eyes_. God, his eyes make her heart jump. He is looking at her so intently, so apologetically that she very nearly whimpers. She feels his gaze everywhere at once. She wants to feel him everywhere at once.

"I was expecting too much," he tells her, his words quiet in the half-darkness of the room. It doesn't feel like summer, neither inside or out; it feels like spring. Carla stares at the drawn curtains in the far corner, just so she doesn't have to look at the pained expression on his face as he admits to her, "I shouldn't have pushed you."

"Yeah, well. I shouldn't have pushed you away." _I was scared. I'm still scared. How are you not scared?_ "Come here." Carla pulls back the duvet and Nick doesn't need telling twice. He places his next to hers on the same pillow she is resting on. His fingers slip beneath the hem of her shirt and her lips graze his cheek. "I didn't want to, you know. I just... Nick, I don't want to hurt you."

"You've said."

"But I don't."

 _You don't deserve it._

Nick sighs against her, and she finds herself sighing back. She reaches for his tie, loosens it until it comes off in her hands, and climbs on top of him, her fingers in search of skin, in search of what she came so close to leaving behind. What she knows she could still lose; and probably will.

When he speaks, she has to strain to hear him.

"You are going to hurt me, Carla. And I am going to hurt you." He is stroking her hair, his eyes never leaving hers. "But you know what?"

Her stomach flips.

"What?" she asks.

"I don't care."

He pulls her down for a kiss and they say no more about it.


	2. Chapter 2

_Hello! This was meant to be a one shot, but since these two seem to write themselves and your reviews are all so lovely, I have decided to carry on with it. Extended scenes, anyone? (Since theirs are usually so short.)_

* * *

 **Enough**

* * *

 _"_ _I'm not wearing a tutu for anyone."_

 _"_ _Spoilsport."_

* * *

"What time do you finish?"

She drops the pen and turns around in his arms. She can't quite remember how she got there, the movement into them, into him, already so quick; so natural; so _right_ that it's hard to believe that a week ago, she wouldn't dare seek comfort from him. Their eyes meet as Carla leans further into Nick. His fingers brush against her arm, and she shivers. His smile is soft, their voices quiet.

"I've a couple of hours to go yet," he tells her. She can tell he's disappointed.

Carla nods slowly.

"I see," she says. "Right, then."

She kisses his cheek, lingering against his skin long enough for her to feel his heavy exhale at the thought of her leaving him so soon. She smiles, just so, and Nick frowns in return – although that frown is soon replaced with the shaking of his head as she sits herself down at the bar, resting her chin against her folded arms which she has placed on top of it.

She is such a tease.

"You know what I like." Her fingers dance around the edge of one of the empty glasses in front of her, the way she is looking at him proving his point as drink is the furthest thing from Nick's mind.

He moves so that he is behind the bar and his hand reaches for hers across it.

"You don't have to stay."

His words hit her squarely in the chest, for they once belonged to her, murmured after too much wine and too little talking. He did stay in the end. He stayed the whole weekend because she couldn't bear to be alone, the temptation of losing herself in one poker game too many something she doesn't think she would've have been able to have resisted with only herself for company.

So, she lost herself in him instead.

She throws his own words back at him.

"I know. But I want to."

Nick smiles.

Never has he wanted a shift to pass so quickly.

* * *

"I'm proud of you."

Carla rolls her eyes as she puts her coat on. The sky has just began to darken; there are clouds overhead and a slight chill in the air. She watches Nick lock up with a fond expression on her face. When he is done, he offers her his arm, and she takes it as if this is something they have done a countless number of times before. (Which she supposes is rather true, though they've never stood so close, never walked so in sync.)

"You do realise how patronising that sounds, don't you?" says Carla.

Nick chuckles under his breath.

"No, I mean it." She looks up at him and nods. "Forty percent is a lot, you know? Are you sure you can trust him? I mean, Aidan _seems_ like a decent bloke, but you said yourself that it's been years since you last saw him and—"

She stops him before he gets too ahead of himself.

"Wow, Nick." She is shaking her head with disbelief. "And there was me thinking you wanted me to go into business with him."

"I did. I do! I just—"

She interrupts him again, a playful smile teasing at her lips.

"Let's put it this way. I trust him with that business a lot more than I ever trusted you."

They stop walking. Nick looks shocked.

"Hey!" he warns.

"Hey," she whispers – and then she kisses him, properly this time, because she can. Because it's what she's wanted to do for hours.

The doors at the Rovers, which they have conveniently stalled in front of, swing open and out falls a more than tipsy Erica. Her hair is a dishevelled mess and she is dragging her bag behind her as opposed to carrying it.

Carla and Nick immediately spring apart. Carla can feel her heartbeat in her ears, even though she knows they haven't really been caught doing anything wrong.

"Good evening," Erica slurs. She has difficulty getting out her words.

"Hi," says Nick.

"Alright?"

Erica nods. How she is still steady on her feet is a complete mystery to her.

"Nice evening for it."

Carla and Nick share a look.

"Yeah, it is," Nick agrees. He is awkward, unsure.

"I saw you this morning," Erica can't help but say.

She hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. The slowness with which walked her to work, his hand light on her back, her smile not quite as well hidden as she would have liked him to believe. They'd stopped and talked outside the factory, the conversation lasting minutes, if that; their eyes giving them away, the kisses they'd exchanged soft and lingering.

They hadn't been flaunting it, but they certainly hadn't been trying to conceal it either.

Carla wishes she had the decency to blush.

"Right."

"You happy, then?"

Carla can feel Nick's eyes on her and the intensity she knows are in them without even looking makes her heart beat faster, and she hates that he can do this to her, because sometimes she longs for the day when her heart seizes to beat. Sometimes she longs for it to slow, to stop; but his hands are on her waist, and his lips so close to her ear, and he is taking her home. She wants him to take her home.

"Very," he says simply.

If only being happy were really as simple as he is making it sound.


	3. Chapter 3

_This really did come out of nowhere. I wrote it very quickly and it's probably full of mistakes, but I thought I'd share it regardless!_

* * *

 **Enough**

* * *

It's three in the morning and she needs to hear the sound of his voice. She isn't entirely sure why. She's still somewhat drunk, still somewhat conflicted. But she misses him. Ridiculously, it is the lack of him in her bed that wakes her.

And that almost scares her as much as his earlier confession.

Almost _,_ but not quite.

Sitting up to a weight upon her lap, Carla blindly moves her laptop to the floor, uncaring for the _WINNER_ notification displayed across its screen. The winning doesn't matter to her; it never has. But never before has the word _winner_ in relation to herself felt so wrong, so fraudulent. Because that's what she is now. A fraud. Someone who is lost to the point where there can be no way back. If she's being honest, Carla isn't sure she even wants a way back, for she has convinced herself that she doesn't deserve one.

Through bleary eyes, she reaches for her mobile. She presses the home button and the display illuminates her face. She has two missed calls from Michelle; but five from Nick – and a text message. Her fingers shake as she rushes to unlock the phone and she hates herself for feeling so weak. She hates _him_ for making her feel such a way.

The message reads:

 _Ignore that voicemail. If you want me to back off, I'll back off. I just want you to know that you don't have to go through this alone. I'm here, yeah? Whenever, whatever. Just talk to me, Carla. I want to listen. x_

Intrigued, Carla dials the number she knows will lead her to his voice. Prerecorded or not, she knows that the pain in her chest she has been feeling in the hours since she told him to go will not leave until it has been given what it craves. _Him_. In whatever form it happens to find him in.

Carla lets the voicemail play, her breathing unsteady as his words fill her head. He is so close to her, but so far. In actuality, he is mere meters from her. They occupy the same building, and Carla finds herself wondering if he can sleep without her by his side, if his thoughts for her are as loud as hers are for him.

"Hi. Carla, it's me." There's a long pause, which isn't really a pause at all. More of a long sigh. She can practically feel his frustration through the phone, though what it is directed at she cannot be sure. "Oh, _God_. Carla. About before... I am so sorry. That was the last thing you needed to hear. The last thing you _wanted_ to hear, I'm sure. And I completely understand why you reacted in the way that you did. I really do. You know, you've got enough problems without me adding to them. Because me loving you is a problem, isn't it? God, I've really gone and done it now, haven't I?" She does not know of the way his lips trembled as he whispered these words, locked in his office with only his self doubt for company. "It was selfish of me. So selfish. I just hope that I've not completely ruined things, you know? Because I meant what I said. The money isn't important; _you_ are. You are more important than anything." She fails to hear his choked _to me_ , something which Nick would be glad about if he knew. "So, you know, ring me back. Whenever you're ready." There's another pause. "Okay? Well, I've got to get back to work now, but... I just want to help, Carla. And even if you don't believe that you need my help, please consider it. At least consider it. Okay? Okay, right. Well, I'll see you later." She can feel him slipping away from her and she doesn't like it. She doesn't like it one bit. "Bye, Carla."

She drops the phone to the bed and sinks down onto one of the pillows. The concern she had heard in his voice physically tore at her heart. Her heart has taken some beating today and she doubts it will ever feel better if she keeps denying it of what it wants. She closes her eyes, ignoring the moisture she can feel building up behind them and instead takes comfort in the darkness that surrounds her, that envelopes her as if it were a blanket, keeping her safe and away from the outside world, but mostly protecting her from herself, for she cannot recognise who she is in the dark. She cannot see who, or rather _what_ , she has become.

She lies still for what feels like hours, but it is only a matter of minutes. Her phone is back in her hand and she is ringing Nick before her sleep induced mind is even able to come up with an opening line. It is three in the morning and she is ringing him because she knows that he will pick up. He will groan as he is woken from his slumber, rolling onto his back and smiling just slightly as he manages to read the caller ID. Because he loves her.

He told her that he loves her, and she really does believe him.

She doesn't have to wait long for him to pick up the phone. Soon, the sound of his breathing fills the line and it is a comfort to her as well as a curse, for she needs him with her; not just a voice, but a being she can curl herself into and wish herself away with.

She has woke him from what has turned out to only be a nap. His lips are dry as he speaks her name, his voice cracking somewhat after having gone hours without being used.

"Carla?"

It is a question, a prayer and a breathy sigh all in one.

She doesn't reply. She is crying silently, but she is crying all the same.

He says it again. "Carla?"

Her heart really hurts now.

"I want to see you." How she manages to speak she does not know. All she knows is that, "I _need_ to see you. Nick, please."

He does not need telling twice.

"I'll be two minutes."

He is actually three, but this detail isn't important. Carla waits in the darkness for the inevitable sound of his key turning in the lock, the key she had given him without words the first weekend they'd ever spent together because it had felt right, it had felt natural that he should be able to come and go as he pleases. The next thing she hears is his footsteps, hesitant footsteps that stop outside her bedroom door. He pushes the door open with unsteady hands and suddenly Carla finds herself on her feet, meeting him in the middle of the room, not with a smile, but with a calmness in her bones that she'd almost forgotten could exist.

"Hi," she breathes.

"Hello."

She rests her head against his shoulder, her arms tight around his middle as he holds her close to his chest. Nick's lips skim the top of Carla's head and she sighs against him, her own pressing kisses to the skin below his left ear. He does not say the words he wishes she'd let him, but the ones he does say suffice.

"It's going to be okay."

She doesn't believe him in the same way she believes that she is loved by this man, but she lets him kiss her lips regardless. The gentleness with which he does almost makes her smile with amusement, for this bedroom has not bore witness to much of that. They've always been heady and desperate by the time they've managed to reach her bed – more often than not, they haven't – but Carla finds that she doesn't mind this change. In fact, she rather likes it. His gentleness sets her nerves on edge. She hums into him.

"Nick." She manages to catch his eyes, despite the absence of light. "Stay?"

His kiss is his answer, but he tells her what she already knows because as much as she hates to admit it, she does need to hear it.

"Always," he whispers.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you for the reviews! This is the date we never got to see._

* * *

 **Enough**

* * *

She tells him that she is proud of him as he once said he was of her. In actual fact, she is amazed.

"It's done. He's been rehired. I hope you're happy."

And she is. She is happier than she has felt in months – and it feels good. _She_ feels good. He makes her feel good.

She kisses him (she can't stop kissing him) as she promises she'll be back in the space of an hour. He gives her a quizzical glance and her smile widens. She touches his hand and then finally, reluctantly lets go of him.

"I said seven, remember?"

"What? You think I'd forgotten?"

After an odd conversation with Robert in the street, a man Carla believes has the potential to be screwed over by Tracy Barlow even more so than her own brother, she makes her way over to her flat. She opens the door and is met by what can only be described as chaos. Not only are half of her possessions still packed up in boxes here, there and everywhere, but there are also two empty wine glasses by her laptop; a suit jacket hanging from the sofa; her flip flops in the middle of the floor from where she had taken them off the night before. The room looks lived in; cohabited.

As she enters the flat, Carla runs a hand over one of the boxes, her fingers collecting dust, and decides that she'll unpack this weekend. She may even get Nick to help her.

Safe in the knowledge that she can (and will) move on with her life, she walks into her bedroom and sets down her bag. The bed is unmade, her makeup laid out across the duvet for easy access. She smiles to herself, remembering the way Nick had tried to persuade her to stay in bed just a moment longer only hours earlier, her excuse of not wanting to be late to work doing very little to stop his efforts. Carla heads to her wardrobe and its contents are as black as she once felt. She looks down at the white shirt that adorns her body and finds that it is a miracle she was able to find it in the first place. She sighs, and then colour catches her eyes.

The dress is new and red, a deep red; bought when she still had money.

The word Nick uses to describe it is, " _Wow_ ," when she enters the bistro five minutes later than she told him she would. Or maybe his omission has very little to do with the dress. Maybe he is too busy noticing the colour in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes, the genuineness of her smile.

"Where is everyone?" she asks.

It takes her a moment to realise that, like the night before, they are completely alone. It seems that he has turfed out his customers for her, _again_. She knows she should feel somewhat guilty for that, but it's not like she asked him to. Besides, she is so done with feeling guilty.

"Come here."

And just like that, she is in his arms. His hands interlock at the base of her spine and she runs hers over his shoulders, down his arms, before they settle on either side of his neck, her thumbs stroking over the skin she finds there. Her head moves into its natural position, resting against his. He is smiling, and she is smiling, and laughter bubbles in her throat. He catches her eye and his smile turns into a grin.

"You okay?" he asks.

She nods, not caring for how overenthusiastic the motion is.

"I am more than okay. So much more than okay," she mumbles, closing her eyes and pressing a lingering kiss to his top lip. She then does the same to the bottom.

He holds her tighter against him, her breath hitching as his hands smooth over the silk of her red, red dress.

"You look beautiful," he whispers. God, his gaze is making her feel it.

They kiss again, though it is more just the pressing together of lips, of smiles too wide and overdue to be kept hidden from one another for the sake of a peck.

"So, this date..." Nick trails off. Carla takes a step back and holds onto each of his hands, their fingers lacing together as they have already done so many times before, as she leads him over to the table she can see he has laid out for them.

She turns to him, impressed.

"You remembered the candles," she says softly.

He kisses her cheek and she leans into him, allowing him to pull back a chair for her to sit upon. Usually, she would be adverse to such behaviour, tradition being something that she tends to distance herself from, but she can't find it in her to care right now. They are alone and they are happy and she will not let anything ruin this moment.

"Of course," he says, somewhere close to her ear. He sits himself down opposite her. "I remember everything when it comes to you."

And she doesn't doubt that for a second.

Nick pours the wine as Carla looks down at their plates. She is laughing again, and Nick knows why. He predicts her words before they have even left her mouth.

"Salad?" She turns her nose up in disgust, her eyes eyeing by the plates sceptically. "Honestly, Nicholas. I was expecting a lavish three course meal. Some boyfriend you are." She huffs and folds her arms across her chest, mirth dancing in her eyes.

 _Boyfriend_.

The word hits him in his chest, hard; it always does. He has to pause for breath before he replies, "Excuse me, but I have only just reinstated my chef. It'd have been cheeky of me to ask him back here to make a meal for his boss' dinner date."

"Oh, but you have no problems when it comes to being cheeky with me," she points out, her smirk suggestive.

Nick laughs.

"Of course. That's different."

Carla rolls her eyes and reaches for her wine glass. Nick leans forward in his seat to remove his suit jacket. He pulls at his tie and lets it slip between his fingers. Their table is the smallest in the bistro, chosen purposefully by Nick for that very reason. Their knees touch underneath it.

"If you're still hungry afterwards—"

"I will be." She bites her lip. Her eyes do not leave his.

"—there's always the chippy." He says this slowly, as if realising his mistake.

"The chippy." Carla pauses for effect. Her eyebrow arches. "Really, Nick, the chippy? Dressed like this?"

He laughs, and his hand finds hers across the table. His fingers stroke her knuckles and she feels calm. She ignores the broken skin on his, for there are more important things now at hand. She just wants to forget and look forwards instead of constantly back.

She has been looking over her shoulder for far too long.

"Yeah, the chippy." His voice is low as he repeats, "Dressed like that."

She squeezes his hand, but the look she throws Nick tells him to _dream on_. It's quiet in the bistro, music playing softly from the speakers a song she thinks she recognises. Candles flicker in front of her eyes and the flames no longer have the ability to strike the fear of God into her. Instead, they are gentle, soothing, romantic – as they should be. As they are to other, normal people.

She drops his hand to pick up her fork.

"I best get eating my lettuce leaves, then," she quips.

Nick shakes his head at her and laughs. He lets her eat for a moment, watches her and delights in the fact that she even has an appetite. He'd been worried the week before. So, so worried.

"Our first date," he says quietly, mostly to himself.

Her smile is gentle. She throws her head back, relief softening her features, hair tumbling down her back.

"Finally," she breathes, and when their eyes meet, _they know_ what the other is thinking.

Erica.

The fire.

The miscarriage.

The gambling.

It has taken them such a long time to get to where they are now, but as she takes a deep breath and earns herself a smile from her lover, Carla decides that the wait has been worth it, if only for the way he makes her feel safe within herself. For the way he accepts her for who she is, even when she is having difficulty in accepting herself.

"We've done this rather backwards, haven't we?" says Nick, amused.

He has picked up his fork, but he has no intention of eating. The salad on his plate looks far from appetising – they both know this.

"We have," Carla agrees. She nudges her foot against his.

"I'm not bothered, though."

"Neither am I."

They spend the next hour chatting of trivial nonsense, pretending they don't know each other, discovering their favourite colours and childhood heroes; discussing their first impressions of one another and what they have regretted during the short time that they have been in love.

Their eyes don't stray from one another for long, their hands always touching, stroking, adding pressure.

"How long?"

The question catches him off guard. They have moved from their table to one of the fitted couches in the corner of the room. She is tucked into his side, her index finger running up and down his chest as his plays with locks of her hair. Her cheek is against his shoulder, her legs resting on top of his.

He looks down at her, and she smiles up at the curiousness of his expression.

"How long what?" he asks.

His lips press to her forehead.

"How long have you loved me?"

His heart almost stops, for this is a question he has often asked himself. He hadn't wanted to fall in love with her and he certainly hadn't _needed_ to; but he had done so all the same, and for that he is glad. Love has never felt like this before and if he is being honest with himself, the intensity of what he feels for her terrifies him. He cannot bear to lose her. Not now, not ever.

"Months," he eventually whispers. Because it is the truth.

She smiles widely up at him.

"Months," she whispers in reply.

Another hour passes and they can no longer dismiss their hunger. Nick suggests the chippy once more and Carla gives in because this is Nick and she is hungry, and, really, it is what she would've settled with in the first place.

So, they eat chips in the street. And when it gets dark, they head back to Carla's flat, and they kiss and kiss and kiss until their eyes close and their breathing slows. And they sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

_You are all so fab. Thank you so much for reading! Let's be honest, we're never going to see them go coffee table shopping. But I suppose this is better than nothing._

* * *

 **Enough**

* * *

He cannot believe how long it has lasted. It isn't like she barely uses it. There is always something resting upon it; a wine glass, a box file. Even Carla herself when they are slightly too drunk to realise that the makeshift table, the cardboard box marked _fragile_ , will not be able to support her weight.

And it doesn't.

It is a Monday and they are already one bottle of wine into the evening. Their jackets have been thrown carelessly to the floor and his shirt is half open, she is pulling at him to stand, but Nick doesn't feel like moving very far. Blindly, they stumble backwards, and Carla should know the moment her legs hit the cardboard that it is not going to hold her, but this turns out to be merely an afterthought.

They collapse into a heap on the floor, the box now laid flat, crushed, beneath them. Their breathing is ragged not only from their kisses, but from the shock of what has just happened.

Carla cries out in pain.

"Nick." They have landed funny. "Nick, get off me."

He moves quickly upon realising that her arm is trapped beneath his. They then manoeuvre themselves so that they are sitting on the floor with their legs crossed and their backs resting against the couch. Once their hearts have began to beat again at a normal rate, they dare to look at each other and immediately burst out into laughter.

"For God's sake," Carla moans, kicking the box just to make a point of its uselessness.

Nick has his head in his hands. His shoulders are shaking with mirth and Carla rests her chin upon one of them, unable to contain her smirk as her eyes meet his. He stops laughing and simply smiles at her.

"It was only a matter of time," he points out.

Carla rolls her eyes.

"You were gonna have me against a coffee table." She sighs dramatically and he feels her breath upon his face. "Classy."

He is laughing again.

"I didn't see you complaining at the time." His hand has found hers and he squeezes it tightly. Carla places their joined hands into her lap and looks down at them as he continues to speak. "Besides, you call that a coffee table? Carla, it was a cardboard box."

She nods slowly, condescendingly.

"All the more reason for you not to— **"**

But he interrupts her.

"How long have you been back here now?"

His question catches her off guard. Carla frowns at it.

"I'm sorry?"

"The flat. How long have you been back here?" He pauses and then adds, "Actually, don't answer that. I already know; it's been a month."

A month since she returned from Vegas and told him of her problems. A month since she lost everything and decided that she wanted to lose even more, wanted to lose those who love her, because she thought that was what she deserved. God, he does not know what he would've done if she had left for LA, left him with all of this love he feels for her stuck inside of him with no way of escape. Just the thought of her being so far from him when he now knows that she can never be close enough makes his heart physically ache. He strokes her hand with his thumb, reassuring himself that this is real and he is not about to wake from a dream he finds far too good to be true.

Carla does not understand where he is going with this, so she tells him so.

"Nick, what are you banging on about?" She sounds exasperated, but the smile she wears is gentle. Patient.

He grins at her.

"When are you going to buy yourself some furniture?"

Her head drops to his shoulder, heavily and without warning. It is almost as if the subject has exhausted her, even though they have yet to touch upon it.

"Soon," she tells him.

Nick nods, but in a sceptic manner.

"How soon?"

She closes her eyes. Carla does not tell him that the reason she has put off buying furniture for so long has had little to do with her state of mind and more to do with the fact that she fears she will no longer be able to afford her own tastes. Because she has not replied, Nick kisses her forehead, as if to remind her of his presence. She zones out rather frequently and he almost always uses this tactic to recapture her attention; and it almost always works.

Now is no exception.

"Sorry."

Carla smiles and blinks herself out of it. She then sits up and leans across to press her lips to Nick's, lingering against them for a long moment before they break the kiss.

"Tomorrow," she says, letting go of his hand and instead laying hers flat against his chest. She gently strokes her fingers over where she knows his heart is steadily beating. "Tomorrow, we should go coffee table shopping."

His laugh is light and airy, his grin large and contagious.

"What? Is that a thing now?" he wonders aloud.

Carla grins back at him, her lips very nearly touching his. "Yes, it's a thing. It can be our... _thing_."

His heart feels so full, for they are acting so normal, so like a proper couple that he finally believes they are.

"I like the sound of that," he whispers. He pulls her onto his lap and rests a hand on either side of her waist.

They kiss again and it isn't long before she has ridded him of his shirt and he of hers. And neither wonder why she wants him to help her choose furniture for a flat that isn't his, both knowing that it is only a matter of time before what is now only hers becomes _theirs_.

Nick cannot remember the last time he went home. Home, now, is wherever the woman currently pressing kisses to his neck decides to take herself. He'd go with her anywhere and he knows she would return the favour, if only he asked.


	6. Chapter 6

**Enough**

* * *

"I can't wait to get you home."

His lips are pressed to her ear where they have often found themselves during the course of the evening. She smirks and leans further into him, her forehead resting against his cheek as she mumbles, "Home?"

She feels him hum.

"Yeah, home."

There is quite a long pause. Carla removes herself from his arms and places down her glass. She turns so that her arms are around his neck and she is smiling softly up at him, fingers combing through his hair at the back of his head.

"Mine or yours?"

His smile is slight.

"Does it matter?" he asks.

"Suppose not."

She leans in and kisses him. She swears she has not been able to go longer than half an hour without doing so, but then he has been the same with her, and she does not feel like blaming her sudden amorousness on the multiple glasses of wine she has consumed. It is him. It is everything about him that she cannot get enough of.

They part, smiling, sighing as they realise that the party isn't yet over. The pub has emptied considerably since Lloyd and Andrea departed from it, but they know that their disappearance would still be noticed, even now.

Carla sways slightly in Nick's arms and kisses him again.

"Give it half an hour and I'm all yours," she whispers into him.

* * *

She hangs off his arm as they walk back to Victoria Court. Partly because she is tipsy, but mostly because she wants to. It still seems odd to her that she can now do whatever she wants to and not have to have a reason as to why. She no longer feels that she has to justify her every action. She can just _be_ and it's liberating and he's unlocking the door to his flat before she has even gauged where they are. It is only when she feels her back slam against the shut door that she realises. And then she smiles, letting him cup her face in his hands and kiss her, softly at first and then not softly at all.

She blindly grabs at his jacket, feeling for the zip. The leather is cold against her hands, the same as it was two days earlier when she had found the jacket at the back of his wardrobe, already forgetting to be subtle with her snooping. His face had been one of disbelief as she presented it to him with a pleading look and an direct question.

"How come you don't wear this any more?"

She hadn't been able to remember the last time she had seen him in it - and neither had he.

He just shrugged it off and pursed his lips. He hadn't worn it since the accident. For some reason, he associated it with his life before. The life he can never get back.

"I don't know," he lied, but then he noticed the look in her eyes and the smile that was tugging at her lips which morphed into a, "Please wear it."

Nick rolled his eyes.

"Why?"

She'd taken a step closer to him and nudged her nose against his, knowing how much he loves it, eyes meeting as she bit her lip in a manner he is only ever able to find suggestive.

"Because I _love_ a man in leather."

Her fingers then brushed against his chest in the same way that they are currently doing, except they didn't then rip open the buttons of his shirt like they are doing right now. They haven't even managed to switch the light on, but they can see one another's faces in the glow from outside, and they are already panting, already too far gone to stop. Her coat and jacket are quickly discarded and thrown into a pile on the floor. His hands are underneath her shirt and he is pressing against her with purpose, her lips against his neck. Kissing and kissing.

The shove against the door they are leaning against stops each of their hearts for longer than they'd ever care to admit. They stare at each other as the sound of a key turning in the lock fills the silence that is now between them. They exhale deeply.

 _Bethany_.

Quickly, they straighten themselves out and move away from the door. Carla kicks their jackets out of the way and steps towards the kitchen, leaving Nick to switch on the light and button back up at least half of his shirt.

But Bethany isn't stupid. She knows exactly what they've been up to the moment she enters the flat, their dishevelled appearances and laboured breathing unexplainable otherwise, but she appears to be in such a foul mood that she does not feel the need to comment.

"Alright?" Carla asks, her smile slight.

She's still not used to being in Nick's flat when his family are around. It isn't awkward, but it is far from comfortable. She feels like she's being intrusive and that she is out of place, but Nick tells her that he feels exactly the same way with them most of the time. They have that effect on people - apparently.

Bethany shrugs her shoulders and walks towards the door of the bedroom she shares with her mother. Whether or not she will make an appearance tonight Nick does not know.

"I'm going to bed," Bethany announces, to which Nick frowns.

"Really?"

It is midnight, but she'll usually do anything to stay up just that little bit longer, as is the way with most teenagers. Nick's learnt that the hard way.

"Yes." She is short with him. "It's a school night, Uncle Nicky. Keep the noise down, will you? I'm tired."

And then the bedroom door clicks shut. There is no goodnight, no nothing. Carla and Nick stare at each other, bemused.

"Did that just happen?" he asks. Carla makes her way over to him, his arms circling her waist as he walks her backwards into his own bedroom.

"Yes. I think it just did," she replies, placing a small kiss to his lips. Her whisper is an amused one. "Uncle Nicky."

* * *

Her first thought when she wakes is that she is cold. Nick's side of the bed is empty and she sits up, reaching for the dressing gown he keeps at the end of his bed and slipping it on. She stands on unsteady feet for a moment before she exits the bedroom. She smiles as she catches sight of him in the kitchen, buttering bread. But her smile soon slips as she notices that Bethany is sat at the island in front of him, already dressed for school whilst Carla is dressed in very little at all.

"Good morning," Nick says upon noticing her in the doorway.

Carla approaches the kitchen and allows him to kiss her. He does not only do it the once. Bethany groans.

"Do you mind?" she says. "Some of us are trying to eat here."

Carla grins.

"No, not really," she quips, giving him one last lingering kiss for good measure.

Nick and Carla smile at each other as Carla takes a seat beside Bethany.

"You off to school, then?"

Bethany rolls her eyes.

"Duh. I'm not wearing this for the fun of it, am I?" She pulls at her tie. Carla cannot say that she is taken aback by this point; she is more than used to Bethany's ways. Being rude is a favourite of hers. She sighs loudly and calls over to Nick, "Have you done my brew yet? I'm gonna end up being late if you're not careful."

"Well, do it yourself, then."

Her sigh turns into a huff. She throws herself out of her seat and stalks over to the cupboard she knows the mugs are kept in. In a rush, she reaches for the nearest one to the edge, but accidentally knocks the mug over it. It hits the floor with a loud smashing sound, the clay breaking up into a number of small and large pieces at her feet.

Nick is the first to react.

"Oh, Bethany!" he cries.

She shoots him an apologetic look and reaches for her school bag.

"Sorry," she almost sings. "But I really need to go."

Nick takes a deep breath and thrusts her lunch into her hands. She smiles slightly before reaching up to kiss him on the cheek, her moody exterior melting for just the briefest of moments.

"Have a nice day," she says quietly. She meets Carla's eyes across the room and nods. "Both of you."

Bethany leaves the flat less noisily than she had entered it the night before. Nick is crouched down on the floor, picking up the fragments of what was once his most used mug. Carla walks slowly over to him and runs a hand over his back, bending so that she down to his level. She helps him pick up the pieces and together they get the job done within a matter of minutes.

They stand up with a sigh and place the pieces on to the side.

"Damn," Nick says. And Carla laughs.

"What?"

"That was my favourite mug," he admits, which only makes her laugh more.

"You have a favourite mug?" she questions, her arms now around his neck and his around her waist.

His smile is kissed.

"What? Don't you?"

"No," she says. "Nicholas, darling, I think that's just you."


	7. Chapter 7

_This isn't my best, but I just had to write something about this scene. I'm still dead because of it._

* * *

 **Enough**

* * *

He suggests lunch as she is buttering toast. His shirt, her kitchen; he creeps up on her and she is only aware of his presence when she feels hot breath against the back of her neck, followed by his lips which trail downwards and then up. She grips at the worktop, half startled and half extremely weak. Weak for him, even though barely half an hour has passed since she practically pinned him to the bed in an effort to stop him from getting up and showering. An effort that had, unfortunately, failed.

He hugs her to him from behind, sways her; almost. Her eyes flutter closed.

"Lunch. Yes?"

"Yes," she sighs, sinking into him. He is dressed for work, but his hair is still wet and she turns in his arms to run her fingers through it, pressing her body to his and enjoying the way his hands slip beneath the shirt she is wearing to caress her skin, as if with purpose. She bites her lip. "I'll meet you in the bistro, yeah?"

"Yeah." The kiss he plants upon her lips tells her that food is not all he has in mind. They smile as they break from it, his nose nudging hers in a way she has gotten far too used to already. "You're gonna be late for work."

His voice is not as scolding as he intends it to be. She laughs gleefully at him for pointing out the obvious.

"Again," she says with a slight smirk. It's like she's pleased with herself, but then she is lost in thought at why she was late the morning before. And the morning before that. And the morning before—

"Yeah, well. You can't blame me this time." They kiss her again before he reluctantly lets go of her. He misses the warmth of her body against his immediately as he moves across the flat to retrieve his shoes. "The bathroom's free, by the way."

She stands in the kitchen, unmoving. Her eyes are on him and she is smiling softly to herself, her chest aching with the love that she feels for him. He has no idea, she thinks, how carelessly happy he makes her feel with the slightest of gestures and the most simple of words.

"Carla?"

He doesn't think she's heard him. Carla blinks herself out of it and flashes him a brilliant smile.

"Oh. Right. Thank you."

* * *

A date in town hadn't been what she'd been expecting, but she's unable to complain when he is willing to skip work just to be in her company. They take his car and as he drives, again, Carla finds herself watching him, head tilted and resting against the cool leather of the passenger seat as he remains blissfully unaware of her eyes on him and simply focuses on the road ahead. A CD she knows they both own is playing quietly from the built in radio. She knows they share it because she recognises the songs that are playing; recognises herself in them, in fact. Or, rather, the person she once felt like. The lyrics are a little too sad for her current mood, so she switches the sound off with a start. Nick looks over at her as they stop at a traffic light.

"Where are we going?" she asks in a quiet voice.

Nick's face gives away nothing. His attempt at being mysterious, however, fails because he soon cracks and chuckles amusedly to himself.

"I'm not too sure," he admits. She rolls her eyes at his lack of thought. And there she was, thinking he'd planned the whole thing. "I thought we could go down to the Northern Quarter. Take our pick."

Carla nods, softening at the spontaneousness of his action.

"Sounds like a plan," she says, placing a perfectly innocent hand on his thigh, which soon becomes anything but when their eyes meet and they forget where they are. It takes the sound of a very loud car horn behind them to realise that the traffic lights have now turned green.

Nick coughs awkwardly and quickly puts the car back into motion. Carla leans back in her seat and smirks to herself, unable to resist squeezing his thigh before she lets go of it, her hand trailing off of him with a controlled and purposeful slowness.

"Keep your eyes on the road, Tilsley."

* * *

They decide to dine in a rather pretentious establishment Nick cannot stop himself from insulting at every given opportunity. Carla shouldn't indulge him with it, but she does – but she also rushes him because in public is the last place she wants to be and his inability to see that, or rather to show his knowledge of it to her, is slowly beginning to wear away her restraint.

Nick pays the bill and they are out of the door so quickly it takes a moment for their eyes to adjust to the change in light. Once they have, Carla drops his hand and pushes him against the side of the building they have just walked out of. His back hits the brick wall and rather than wincing, he pulls her to him by the hips and her kiss is bruising and needy and open mouthed and it is with a moan that she ends it, her smile something he knows he'll always cherish. To call it beautiful would only be an insult to the way it makes him feel.

"How long do your _business lunches_ usually last?" he asks her, toying with the zip of her coat. He is still catching his breath.

"Oh, hours," she says, swaying in his arms, fingers lightly clawing at his chest as she presses her lips to his again. This time, it is he who pulls away. He takes both of her hands in his and walks them backwards. She frowns slightly in confusion, following him blindly.

"Come on," he says.

"Where are we going?"

His answer is her backside hitting the bonnet of his car. She gasps and then lets out a quiet laugh, the paintwork cold against her thin jeans. They exchange long kisses as he fumbles to find his keys and subsequently unlocks the car. He meets her eyes.

"In. Now."

She has a nice lunch.


	8. Chapter 8

**Enough**

* * *

She hears the front door click shut and looks up immediately from her laptop, casting it aside and tossing him a brief smile as he removes his coat. He is later than he said he would be and something about his expression tells her that this evening's outing has worn him out. Carla pulls her legs up to her chest as he strides on over, practically throwing himself down onto the sofa next to her. His sigh is heavy and drawn out; it causes her to raise her eyebrows.

"How was it?" she dares to ask.

Nick merely closes his eyes and gives the slight shaking of his head.

"Don't," he says. "Just don't."

"That bad?"

She has shuffled closer to him, her head resting on top of her arm which she reclines lazily against the back of the sofa. She watches him as he speaks, his head tilting so that he can look at her. He smiles in a way he hopes she will find reassuring, his fingers meeting her shoulder as he stretches his arm out, and they dance gently across her skin.

"It's nothing, really." But she rolls her eyes at what is one of the most obvious lies he has told her in recent times and he feels the need to carry on. He can't not now, can he? "It's just that David told me something. He said that Kylie's back using and if I'm being honest, Carla, I can't believe it. I can't believe she'd throw everything away after she has come so far."

Her face drops in sympathy and she leans over to kiss his cheek. She's still not used to his family, still not used to their ways or the ways they use in relation to each other. But Carla likes Kylie. Carla knows that Kylie would never jeopardise the life that she has built for herself with David and the kids, not a second time. Not without a bloody good reason. She isn't that stupid.

Carla presses her forehead to Nick's and exhales deeply, laying her legs across his lap.

"Oh, baby," she murmurs. She strokes his hair, her eyes closing as if she is deep in thought. "Kylie's an addict. And like all addicts, that's just a part of who she is. It's not gonna change, no matter how far she comes – or seems to have come."

Nick nods lightly in recognition of what she is saying, in recognition of where it is coming from. They are silent for a moment, reflective – and then Carla breaks the silence with, "You're only pissed because I never went with you."

Nick laughs. He cannot deny the truth in her words.

"How was your meeting?" he asks.

"Dismal."

"Did you get the contract?"

"What do you think?"

Her face breaks out into a brilliant smile which he kisses from her lips with the same kiss he now realises he should've greeted her with. He pulls away, but pulls her to him. He wraps his arms around her waist as she settles in his lap. They share another smile.

She's back, alright. Her business finally feels like her own again, even with the added interference from not one, not two, but three unasked for Connors.

"Today was odd," Carla says lightly. "Not seeing you until now. I'd gotten used to the late mornings, the long lunches..."

"The skiving, you mean?"

She laughs and it is like music to his ears. He finds himself wondering how he has gone without it for so long, before realising that _so long_ has been a mere matter of hours. His dependance on her for happiness surprises even him.

"Yes. The skiving," she replies, her fingers raking up and down the front of his jumper. The material is soft to touch, softer than it looks. But she soon abandons stroking it altogether and instead lays her head against the knit, against his chest. She can feel his heart beating beneath her ear, him playing with the ends of her hair, his lips to the top of her head.

She feels truly relaxed for the first time all day. She buries her head deeper into his chest and whispers, "I'm so glad you're home."


	9. Chapter 9

_Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews! They really do make me smile._

* * *

 **Enough**

* * *

"I didn't know Andy was supposed to be working tonight."

She startles him, a hand placed firmly on either side of his waist as he turns around to smile at her in the quiet of the empty bistro.

Nick shrugs.

"He wasn't meant to be."

A slight smirk curls at the edge of Carla's lips and they sway slightly, her arms moving to lock around his neck in their natural hold. His lie dangerously low on her back.

"So you roped him in just so you could, what? Allow me to sit on your lap and crack jokes with my family all night?"

She kisses him instead of allowing him to answer; a lingering kiss he replaces with one of his own as she pulls away from him. And she giggles, the combination of alcohol and happiness bubbling in her blood to the point where she can no longer contain it. Nick smiles widely at the gleam in her eyes, her eyes which close as she presses multiple kisses to his cheek and then works her way down to his jawline, her grip on him tightening as her kisses soften and become only the press of her lips to his skin.

"Missed you today," she mumbles and he chuckles softly.

Her head falls heavily onto his shoulder and he brushes her hair from her face so he can study it intently as he speaks.

"We've just spent the whole night together," he reminds her, amused.

"No, but I wanted more," she moans.

He rolls his eyes at her, before pressing a kiss to her forehead, his arm now tight around her waist.

"You're drunk, sweetheart," he whispers, though he isn't quite sure why. It's not like they aren't alone.

She hums in agreement, attempting to nod her head and failing in a way that is rather way. Nick has to bite his lip to stifle his laughter.

"Am not," she says, before adding, "You were very naughty before, you know."

She stands straight all of a sudden, perhaps too quickly for she stumbles under her own feet. Grinning, she recovers as gracefully as she can and pulls him to her by the collar of his shirt. Her breath ghosts his lips, but he knows she isn't going to kiss him. She is in too much of a playful mood to do that. To give him what he wants.

"What do you mean?" he asks, his fingers hooking around the front belt loops of her jeans. He does not mistake the longing in the look she throws at him.

"We've _danced_ in here before," she explains, as her own fingers dance up and down his chest. Her eyes are elsewhere, though; her voice something he cannot get enough of when it is so hushed and her words so drawn out. "Too many times to count, really."

He nods slowly.

"We're allowed to. It's my restaurant."

"Ah!" She raises her eyebrows, as if in realisation and smiles at him brightly. "So I get preferential treatment, then? I see how it is."

He cannot stop himself from kissing her. Just the once.

"For you?" he murmurs. "Of course."

And she hums as she moves in to kiss him, for longer this time and with no concerns for the company they are in. She holds him closer, as he does her, and when they eventually part, they are breathless and she is dragging him towards the direction of the bar.

"I wanna dance right now," she complains. And he laughs.

"Oh, I bet you do." He teases her with his words and his eyes and his hands which find her skin beneath her shirt and move against her in a circular motion that does little to satisfy her growing want. No, _need_.

Carla groans in frustration as his back hits the bar and she presses herself completely against him.

"You're my favourite dance partner," she practically sings, anything to encourage him. Not that he needs it.

Between kisses to her neck, he manages to reply, "I'm your only dance partner. Or so I should hope." She feels his laughter more than she hears it. "And you say you're not even a little bit tipsy..."

Her fingers dig into his shoulders for that and she gives him a look he knows will be the last on the matter.

"Nick?" she asks.

"What?"

"Are we dancing or what?"


	10. Chapter 10

_As always, thank you so much for your lovely reviews!_

* * *

 **Enough**

* * *

Her eyes are beginning to burn from staring into the fire for too long. Her wine glass has long since emptied and he is still sat there, sans his coat now, his jacket also discarded and his shirt sleeves rolled up, watching her. Trying to read her. She sighs and it sounds like it takes effort. She doesn't move from her position on the floor to place her wine glass down, to finally meet his eyes again, her chin resting gently in the slight dip where his knees meet.

"I'm exhausted," she admits in a quiet voice.

His hand is over hers where it rests against the couch and she squeezes his fingers, almost as if to make sure he is real. That any of this is real.

"That's okay," he murmurs. "You've had a shock today."

She breathes deeply again and he finds his eyes drawn to their joint hands, the red ink stains that adorn each of her fingers, the rock he so very recently placed on the third. Carla tries to smile up at him, but he knows it's no use and he simply moves to standing so that he can pull her to her feet again. And when he does, they share a long look. Her feet are soon moving towards him and they hug tightly in the middle of the room, his lips against her forehead. Once lingering; once not.

"How about I run you a bath, eh?"

Her hands are on his shoulders and she is nodding, a slight laugh in her voice as she replies, "Run _us_ a bath, you mean?"

His smile does not confirm nor deny her assumption. He instead takes her hand, leading her to the bathroom with a calmness about him she wishes she could possess. The door is shut behind them and she leans against the sink, taking in the cool air the room has to offer her in comparison to the rest of the flat. She kicks her shoes off as Nick busies himself in filling up the tub with warm water. The relief Carla once felt from the temperature soon fades. She scrubs a hand across her face and hits her head against the mirror behind her.

Nick makes his way over to her and for the time being, all that can be heard is the sound of running water.

"It's hard not to think about it, I know," he says.

She nods, frowning slightly. "God. I just don't understand it, Nick. I mean, why now? Why Johnny?" She groans, burying her head into his conveniently placed shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm moaning. I bet you've heard enough of that from me today."

He chuckles softly. "No, never," he replies genuinely. His fingers latch onto the ends of her hair. "I thought you'd know that by now."

She closes her eyes and leans against him. Moments pass before she looks up at him and manages a smile, though it is gone almost as soon as it comes.

Nick sighs.

"We don't have to have this engagement party, you know. I told you at the time you shouldn't feel pressured into it."

Carla rolls her eyes.

"I could hardly have said no, could I? Not with Bethany pestering me down one ear, and Johnny offering to pay for it down the other."

She hangs off him by his tie, which she pulls at and pulls off. Nick stops the water from running and they undress themselves, speaking as they do so as if they were doing anything else, were anywhere else.

"Oh, yeah. What was all that about with Tracy earlier?" Nick asks.

Carla peels off her top before shrugging her shoulders.

"Don't ask me. I don't know what her problem is." She sighs upon realising her mistake. Her fingers card carelessly through her hair as she catches herself. "In fact, I do. We all do. I just..."

"I thought Robert would calm her down, you know?" Nick interrupts. "The two of them together. I thought it might've the making of her." Carla looks unconvinced. "Or something like that," Nick sheepishly adds.

She takes a step towards him and helps him with the shirt he is making a meal of removing. She runs her hands along his arms and settles them around his neck, locked together as her breath ghosts his lips.

"What do you suppose he sees in her?" she asks him quietly.

Nick brushes hair from Carla's face so he can see her properly.

"What do you mean?"

"Robert." Carla places a gentle kiss to his cheek, just missing his mouth. "What do you suppose he sees in Tracy?"

Nick thinks hard, makes a thing of his deep thought. He catches her by her waist to pull her closer and hums as she continues to kiss his skin. Barely there, but there all the same.

"I don't know," he says softly. "But then you can't help who you fall in love with, can you?"

She catches his eye and the way she is looking at him takes away his breath because he knows what's coming and he loves it.

He loves her.

"No, you can't." She pulls him closer to her by his neck and nuzzles his shoulder, her lips pressing against him as her other hand sweeps up and down his opposite arm. "But if this was a choice, Nick; if I could choose this, I would. Every time. I'd always choose you."


	11. Chapter 11

_This is just a little, pointless thing..._

* * *

 **Enough**

* * *

She has already changed by the time he arrives home, pyjamas half buttoned and dinner half ready. It's been a long day for them both and she can see it in the way he moves slowly towards her, his coat already in his hands, eyes downcast and what she knows will be bad news on the tip of his tongue, waiting for the right moment to be shared, which he decides is right now.

"Sarah's pregnant." He just comes out with it and her mouth opens slowly in surprise.

"Blimey." Her eyebrow is raised and he must find this amusing, for he chuckles just a little.

"My thoughts exactly."

They are both leant against the kitchen counter, watching one another with equally as curious expressions. Carla reaches across the worktop to hold Nick's hand. He smiles at her and then sighs, obviously overtired.

"Did you get your laptop alright?" he asks.

She nods.

"Yeah. Though when I went in to get it, Johnny was still at the factory. I'm telling you, Nick; there's summat wrong with him. I just dunno what. I can't work it out. He was talking about when I was kid and what he did and didn't do for me. I don't get it."

He squeezes her fingers tightly, shrugging.

"What was it you said the other night?" And she is giggling before he can finish, allowing him to pull her closer, to place one hand on either side of her waist. She shakes her head at him, but he carries on regardless. She knows exactly what he is referring to. " _Maybe he's just going through the manopause_."

He tries to imitate her voice the best he can, failing spectacularly and earning himself a slap to the arm.

"Hilarious you, aren't you?" she says to which he nods, rather enthusiastically.

"You know it," he replies and he goes in to kiss her. And for a moment, it seems as if she is going to let him, but then her brain begins to work again and she pushes him away from her, grinning.

"I don't think so," she sings.

His pout is for show, but so, so kissable. Her eyes soon narrow and she is brushing past him to reach the fridge, pulling them out the bottle of wine Nick had brought home from the bistro earlier in the week.

Nick sighs loudly at her actions, running his fingers through his hair in light frustration.

"It's a cold, Carla." The remnants of which can still be heard in the hoarseness of his voice, the bluntness of his tone.

"Yes." She nods as if he thought she were simple, opening the bottle and navigating the kitchen in search of some clean glasses. "And it is also Christmas next week. And I'd rather not feel more like death than usual, sat opposite your mother at the dinner table, watching her carve us a dead bird, her paper hat all skeewiff as I cough all over her handiwork."

He laughs. Loudly. Isn't able to help himself.

Carla at Christmas, Carla at Christmas _with his family_ , is still something he has yet to get his head around.

He reaches for her again, and she resists. His laughter does not subside. "One kiss," he promises.

But she just shakes her head. "No."

"We live together now." And they catch each other's eyes as he says this, their laughter breaking for smiles that are almost wondrous and still in disbelief at the fact that this has been made true. And so recently as well. "Come on, Carla! We've shared a bed the whole time I was ill. If you were gonna catch it, you'd have caught it by now."

She knows he is right (always right, infuriatingly right) and yet she still smirks, still pours them their drinks and ignores his pleas.

He dares to come up behind her, resting his head against hers in a way that forces her eyes to shut and she hums, though mostly because the way he has began to sway them, without her even being properly aware of where his hands have landed, makes her feel sleepy. Comfy.

"One kiss," he whispers in her ear and finally she snaps, her head tilting to press a firm lips to his cold cheek, her arched eyebrow screaming _are you happy now?_ and of course he is, but of course she's not – for the second he pulls away from her, she sneezes.

Her sneezes barely subside for the rest of the evening.


	12. Chapter 12

**Enough**

* * *

He spends the night tossing and turning, the phone on the pillow next to his inactive. Each hour that passes in which the screen remains unlit drags on and on until he can stand it no longer. He calls her again and he doesn't care for the time. He just needs something; anything. This silence is so unlike her that he knows, he just knows that something is wrong and he is powerless to stop it, or help it, or do anything other than feel this sickness in the pit of his stomach that only seems to increase in its intensity as time slowly wears on.

A last minute conference in the centre of Liverpool is not how he had planned to spend his Monday night. Monday nights are reserved for crap telly and cheap food and Carla. Just Carla and her excessive collection of wine and the cushions she often threatens to smother him with when he pushes his luck too far. But Leanne had pulled out, claiming Simon wasn't well, and there was only he who could go instead, Robert's recent move from number one still too fresh for Nick to expect much of him workwise.

And so he went instead, meaning he was unable to bail Carla out of - what Aidan hopes will become - the annual Underworld pingpong competition. She hadn't been best pleased, refusing to leave bed in the morning to see him off in his car, and he finds himself wondering now whether this silence is her way of punishing him for that. However silly. After all, they do play games such as these with each other - but they never usually last for as long as this.

With a sigh, he checks his phone once again as he waits at the front desk of the hotel he'd stayed the night in. He checks out, lying to the enthusiastic receptionist behind it that his stay was enjoyable and he slept well and of course would stay again if he was ever in need of a room when in the area.

Practically throwing himself into the driver's seat of his car, he dials Carla's number. He is tired, so tired, his eyes drifting shut as he leaves her yet another message.

"Hi, babe. It's me. Again. Sorry if you feel like I'm badgering you. I just want to know that you're okay? I probably sound needy and pathetic, but you've not replied to me in hours and... well, it just doesn't sit right with me. Anyway, I'm driving home now. I shouldn't be too long. I'll drop in at the factory once I get back." He pauses, having to think whether it's a good idea to say what he is about to before he quickly adds in, "I missed you last night. A lot. Probably too much." He sighs again and brings the call to an abrupt end. "So, yeah. I love you. See you soon, Carla. Bye."

Her lack of response makes him long for months gone by, before they were more than just friends that weren't even that, exchanging text messages until the early hours, despite just the short walk down a corridor that divided them. Now it is miles and he is being met only with ignorance.

He takes hold of the steering wheel with both hands, just hoping that he is worrying for nothing.

* * *

The girls are out on their lunch when he enters Underworld. He finds Aidan and Johnny in the office, but no Carla. She hasn't been in all day, apparently. Feeling sicker than he had when he left Liverpool hours earlier, he makes his way up to the flat. As Carla hears his key turn in the lock, she doesn't feel the usual sense of comfort that comes with it. That comes with Nick. She is indifferent to his presence and she is ashamed to admit that part of her hasn't even considered him, has half forgotten that someone else keeps a key to her home that is now so nearly theirs.

Last night, after she'd ran from Roy; from Johnny; from the world, she'd wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and cry. And go to bed and drink herself senseless, but not to the point where sleep would've been possible because to sleep would've been to forget. And she doesn't want to forget. She doesn't want this anger to fade just now because it is hers and it is her right to feel it. She is right to feel it.

She'd arrived home to an empty flat, but another part of her really didn't want to be alone. That part wanted it to be the previous Sunday when she'd gone out drinking with Michelle to the pub and had a proper and much needed catchup. She'd gotten in understandably late, so late that Nick was already asleep in bed and she'd just climbed in beside him and pressed herself against his back, his warmth becoming her warmth. And even whilst he slept, his arms found their way around her. But there had been no questions. No nothing. Just comfort and despite herself, she knows there is nothing she wants or needs more. From him, especially.

Once he has been told all about the previous day's events, it becomes blatant to Nick why Johnny had avoided his eyes at the factory earlier. Avoided them like the plague, actually, now that he comes to think about it. He's never seen Carla look so exhausted. She's in a state of shock, but one thing is clear and that is her anger. It's the only thing other than nothing that she is currently able to feel. Seeing her standing there, holding herself because she won't let him do it for her, hurts. Her pain is his pain and he just wishes he could take it all from her, whilst knowing that he can't. He couldn't even dream to.

Nick doesn't mean for his own feelings to get in the way of what he is saying, but they do. He was young when his real father died and he feels that knowing him would've somehow made him different, perhaps. Made him feel better, he supposes, in a way he wants Carla to feel.

 _Better_.

If only a little.

She moves to the bathroom as he suggests like she is on autopilot. She wants to fight with him, will fight with anyone who will (or won't) listen to what she is (or isn't) saying, but she gives it up. She lets him run her a bath, using the crystals she'd received as a Christmas present from... someone. She can't remember who it was now. A week hasn't even passed since Christmas and yet it feels like as if it were part of another lifetime. She feels as if she were a different person then, a happier one by all means, but one living in ignorance that she doesn't even have the heart to call blissful.

Because she'd rather know than not.

She realises that now, however much it hurts.

He makes her a coffee the same way he does each morning and takes it through to her as promised. She doesn't even acknowledge the fact that he is there until he kneels down by the bath, the mug at the foot of it, and traces her face with his eyes and then, ever so tentatively, a single finger. Her eyes close as he strokes her cheek and she exhales deeply. She burns everywhere; burns with hatred, burns for the love she knows she should be feeling. She dares to meet his eyes and when she does, they are as tearful as she knows hers are, and her chest tightens. There is a moment when he thinks she is going to say something; anything. But she doesn't. She quickly turns her face from him, muttering a quick _thank you_ _for the coffee_ and doesn't react when he kisses her wet forehead, her head only shaking when he offers to wash her matted hair for her.

As he leaves the bathroom, regret and longing in every step, Nick closes the door behind him. He doesn't hear her whisper. She barely does herself.

"I'm sorry."

She might as well be. Since it seems like no one else is.


	13. Chapter 13

**Enough**

* * *

She arrives home late.

She has made a habit of arriving home late these days and Nick finds himself wondering why. The factory can be no fun. She has siblings now, a father she doesn't want to know. Johnny and Aidan aren't getting on, she says. It's all she ever seems to say. She's like a broken record. She takes a subject and she sticks to it; she doesn't let it go. She doesn't want to talk about anything else. Sometimes, she doesn't want to talk at all. Not to him, but to someone else? Nick can't be sure. He's no longer sure about a lot of things when it comes to her and he wants to know when this change - minimal to begin with, but now something that cannot be ignored - first occurred.

Tonight, he is already in bed when she gets in. He is not sleeping, but he pretends to be. And he hears her slip into the room, _their_ room, and she is so quiet about it. One shoe is removed, then the other, lightly placed by the door, her finger itching for the light switch and instead deciding upon a lamp.

Nothing happens for what seems to be a long moment and then her side of the bed dips and he swears he can feel her eyes on him. They burn into the back of his head. He hears the sound of her clothing being ruffled, removed; and then she is under the covers in just her underwear and she daren't touch him. She doesn't even move. She just lies beside him, aching to hold him, aching to be held by him. She aches to wake him and tell him about her day, let him tell her about his. But she cannot do these things. She cannot do anything other than turn so that her back is to him and pray that he won't wake.

But she is never that lucky.

"Carla?" His voice is so soft it hits her right in the chest. She almost forgets how to breathe. Her name from his lips used to be one of her favourite things.

"Hey," she whispers, staring at the wall in front of her. "Sorry I'm in so late."

He doesn't ask for an excuse. He has grown somewhat tired of hearing them.

"That's alright." She feels him move closer to her on the bed. His breath tickles the back of her neck and her eyes close, a sense of contentment washing over her she knows she is unworthy of feeling. "I missed you tonight," he tells her and she could honestly cry. "And I miss you last night, and the night before, and the night before that…"

She gets the point quicker than he stops talking and it only makes her feel worse. She lets out a shaky breath.

"I'm awful. I'm sorry."

He places a hand gently on either side of her hips and she almost flinches. His hands aren't cold. In fact, they are warm; they are so warm. But she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be touched by him, to be loved by him. Her heart pounds in her chest as she finds her hands automatically falling over his, fingers stroking his, his kisses to her cheek welcome. She shouldn't welcome them, but she can't not. She hums and she feels his smile against her skin.

He breathes, "Promise me you won't work late tomorrow."

She does not have the heart to turn down such a plea. She's been so cold with him lately, so distant. It is through no one's fault but her own and she misses him. She misses _them_. And she knows that he does, too. If she's going to live with this lie, she is going to have to live with it properly. Live life properly. Not just for her own sake, but mainly for Nick's.

He deserves the truth and what he is getting is a lie, so the lie better be damn well executed.

"I won't," she whispers, pulling his arms tight around her. She moves so that her head can tuck into his shoulder and his fingers come to play with the ends of her hair she desperately longs to brush. She breathes in his scent, nuzzles into the warmth of him.

He lets out a sigh.

"We need to do something tomorrow night," he informs her. She hums in agreement. "It's been ages since we last did something, just me and you."

She runs a hand down his arm, entwines their fingers once she has reached the end of it.

"Like what?" she asks.

"I don't know. I could cook for you if you like." He does notice the way she stiffens at the word _cook_ , but he doesn't say a word about it. He wouldn't know which words to use. "Or not, of course. We could always order in. Whatever you like. Indian; Chinese. We could watch a film. We could do nothing. We could do anything." She laughs slightly at the excitement she can hear in his voice, at the way in which he sways their bodies ever so slightly. "Just as long as we do something. I don't mind what it is."

And she kisses him. She has to. She raises her head and she gives him a proper kiss, which he naturally returns despite the alcohol he can taste on her breath he doesn't want to know where was consumed, and if her tongue hadn't have been quite so busy, _I love you_ would be at the very tip of it. Because despite everything, she really does genuinely love him. But to say it is another matter entirely. To say it is to sound hypocritical to her own ears, to say it is to hear him say it back and it's too much for her. She can't handle it.

She's too weak and she's expecting him to be too strong.

When they part from the kiss, he is smiling at her. His eyes sparkle and she quickly has to look away, settling down to sleep against his chest, the light still on on the other side of the room left with for the time being as she whispers to him, "It's a date."

It makes her sad to realise it'll be their first so far of the year.

* * *

 _We still on for tonight? Xx_

 _Absolutely xxx_

 _Great xxx_


	14. Chapter 14

**Enough**

* * *

"Sleep."

She barely recognises her voice and she has no knowledge of the time. But she isn't tired, she's no longer in pain. She just feels numb. He won't take his eyes off her. It's like he physically can't. And when she looks at him looking at her, all she can see is fear and loss and care. So much care she physically aches for it. It's an alien concept to her in such a situation.

In a hospital with its four walls and its beeping machines, the coffee that dishwater tastes better than and the apathetic faces of health professionals who offer their support, medical and moral.

Nick has been here before. It's all far too familiar to him. It makes him feel unsettled. The cotton sheet thrown over Carla's legs; its fibres he runs his fingers along touch every single one of his nerves until they itch. His skin is on edge and he is being suffocated by air so clean, so breathable, it is hard not to choke on when it was once all he could live because of. The hard mattress, the white pillows. The wires and the plastic stuck to skin and the quiet. It is so quiet, but the quiet is loud.

She calls his name for a second time. She knows his head is in another place entirely. A lack of sleep can't help with that.

"Nick."

He has since moved to the side of her unbroken arm, yet that is not to say it does not hurt to move because it does. But she manages it, her fingers moving along the bed to sit upon his own, to get his attention. His eyes are red and unblinking and his exhaustion can be seen in yesterday's clothes, his unshaved face. The genuine smile he throws at her she knows she doesn't deserve.

"Sorry," he whispers and he is apologetic about it. Her chest has never felt so tight. "I zoned out for a minute there."

Carla's face is turned to him. She simply taps a finger over his hand, like a scold. Like what she wishes could be a slap.

"Sleep," she repeats, and he misunderstands her.

"I'll be here when you wake up."

"No." She is muttering. She is wondering whether she is even understandable, whether she is even understandable _to_ _him_. He frowns and sighs loudly, deeply, and she has to continue. "You need to sleep, baby. I'm okay. Promise."

He stares at her for a long moment. He looks as if he is going to cry.

"Are you? Honestly, are you?" And his eyes are everywhere, searching her body for injury, _more_ injury. A cause for concern; anything he can tend to. It breaks her heart.

"Yes," she whispers as he somewhat reluctantly pulls his chair closer to her bed. Doing as her eyes are telling him to. Slowly, she forces herself to raise her arm and she aligns it with the back of his head, pulling him down against the mattress so that he is resting against it, and she hears him laugh slightly once he has realised what she's made him do.

Her eyes close and she cards her fingers through his hair. It needs washing and she knows hers does, too. He has been in this state for as long as she has. Has been by her side at every possible moment he could've been. She was never alone. She never felt it, either. He was a constant; her constant. And she never wants that feeling of togetherness to fade.

"Thank you," she says. She knows he isn't sleeping. Knows he probably won't until she does, but his resting is enough for her for now. It has helped to calm down her own breathing in actual fact. Calm washes over them for a time and she thanks him again and again. And then _thank you_ becomes _I love you_ and _I'm sorry_ and she's sure he's drifted off because he doesn't reply to her, he doesn't react or move or even breathe in a way that tells her he is listening.

And then he whispers, so brokenly, "I thought I was gonna lose you."

Carla stiffens immediately, stops her stroking of his hair. Opens her eyes. Stares at the ceiling and its cracks, its dim light.

"You haven't," she assures him in such a small voice.

"I'm so scared because I don't know what my life is without you and I tried to imagine it. I tried so hard, Carla. When you were being operated on, I sat there and I couldn't eat or sleep and all I could do was think. So much thinking." He stops his rambling. She knows he is crying, but she can't bring herself to acknowledge it. "My head really hurts," he admits.

So Carla rubs it like she can rub it better, _this_ better, them better. Herself better. They daren't look at each other.

"Then sleep, eh?"

But he moves his head so that it is closer to hers and she takes in his face - every detail worn down by complete and utter exhaustion, his tear tracks all she seems to be able to focus on - and allows him to kiss her nose. Her smile is gorgeous. It takes up her entire face for the briefest of moments. It hurts to smile, but he is worth every twinge of pain in the cuts on her face. He looks content and relaxed, rested, and she lets him share her pillow, him now kneeling on the cold hospital floor beside the bed and he does not give a single thought to the aching joints in his bent knees.

"I love you," he begins. There's more, of course. But she can't hear any of it. She doesn't want to hear him sing her nonexistent praises. Doesn't want him to big her up, to tell her it wasn't her fault when if she'd have been as loyal as she once had pride in herself for being, she'd never have had reason to be in the bistro. To put herself in such a stupid, reckless position.

"No, I love you," she chokes and the tears don't stop. He lets them fall, lets her let it out. And when she asks him to lie with her, he barely hesitates, thoughts of and a longing for home at the forefront of each of their minds.


	15. Chapter 15

**Enough**

* * *

She's freezing by the time she gets home.

She walks the long way around. Has to compose herself; calm her breathing, stop with these pathetic shakes. Upon opening the front door, she is met with the smell of dinner. It knocks her a bit, for she hadn't realised the time. Nick doesn't cook alone much these days. He refuses to, telling her she must do it with him. He wants to teach her and she is usually so, so eager to learn. To ogle at him mostly. Annoy him. Take bits and pieces of the food. But sometimes she ends up doing things, actual cooking things, and she can feel his eyes on her, his arms around her.

He knows she doesn't eat as much as she should. She supposes this is his way of ensuring that she does consume something at least once a day that is more than just a packet of crisps on her lunch break.

Nick frowns upon seeing her standing in the doorway. She has obviously been gone for longer than she'd thought. She smiles at him, knowing that it's fake, and shrugs off her coat.

"So…" She places the milk carton down, her phone and her purse. "How far is it, then? Torquay."

She launches straight back into the conversation she'd left, not wanting to dwell too much on the one that she has just had when she should be happy. And she is, isn't she? He's giving her what she wants. More than what she wants. He's giving her an escape; a new life. An adventure if nothing else, but she just feels so on edge. Her heart is so, so heavy. Looking at him is hard when his eyes are so open. Not only his eyes, but his mind, too.

She doesn't even want to think about his heart.

"Where've you been?" he asks. He takes her hand, feels how cold it is. He looks concerned.

"Sorry. I got the milk and then I just thought I'd stretch my legs a bit." One lie. "I'm still stiff from my nap." Another.

He smiles. He's blissfully unaware, so much so that she can feel a piece of herself slowly beginning to crumble because of it. She holds onto the kitchen counter as she makes her way over to him, accepting the kiss he places onto her lips.

"That's a sign of getting old that," he tells her. "You wanna watch yourself."

"Oh, do I?" She steps closer to him and puts her head to his chest, closes her eyes and takes a very deep breath. He runs a hand from the top of her head to the middle of her back where her hair finishes, resting his cheek against her, pressing multiple kisses near her scalp.

"What's wrong?" he whispers.

Her uninjured arm is tight around his waist. He can read her mood even when he can't read her face and that is more often than not. It's hidden from him, buried deep into his shirt. He feels her move against him, but she doesn't look up. She makes a noise akin to a hum and it really makes him smile. She's tired; he can tell. But it's come on all of a sudden.

"Carla," he gently prompts.

"I think we should go on holiday." He laughs at that, not only for how spontaneous it is (though it is nothing compared to this morning), but for the realisation that comes with it. They want to move away together, want a fresh start away from everything and everyone they know and love and have come to depend upon, and they are yet to have gone away together. They have yet to share a holiday in this country or another. That, and a space that is truly, truly theirs.

It hurts Nick's head to think of the reasons why, though time is naturally the most obvious one.

Finally, she allows herself to meet his eyes.

"What are you laughing at?" she asks.

"Nothing."

"Good. Because I'm serious, Nick. I want you to take me away. You know, the seaside sounds good for now. We should try it. Just for the weekend. Go to the beach, build sandcastles, buy ice cream…"

He grins at her.

"You're just a big kid underneath it all, aren't you?" he asks.

"Aren't we both?" She raises a brow. Wanting to do the things she never could when she was at the age in which they are deemed acceptable to do so now, with the man that she loves, is not something that seems as silly to her as it should. It feels liberating to know that he won't judge her. That he'll simply play along with even more enthusiasm than she had in the first place. "Don't you want to do your back in carrying me down the length of Blackpool pier?"

He chuckles, tickled by her question. "Blackpool?" To her very sure nod, he adds, "Classy."

She pauses before speaking again, adopting a more serious tone and a gentler, more adoring smile.

"This is reckless, Nick. My safe, sweet, dependable Nick." She reaches up to kiss him, her arm moving from his waist to his neck, bringing him closer to her. "What have I done to you, eh?"

He presses his forehead to hers. They smile at each other, even though their eyes are closed, and she can feel his fingers moving to wear she is itching to be touched beneath her jumper.

"Carla, I was wrong before. Weatherfield isn't home because home isn't a place, is it? Home is a person. And you're my person." She kisses the corner of his mouth. Everything aches. "Actually, I do know what you've done to me. You've made me certain. Of what I want and with who."

And there is nothing more intoxicating than that.


	16. Chapter 16

**Enough**

* * *

She throws herself into the car, her weight sinking the tyres ever so slightly as she does so, breathing out a sigh and reclining her head back against the rest that is behind it.

"You told them, then?" Nick asks and his smile is soft, his eyes sympathetic.

Carla nods, stares out of the window. She is fiddling with the edge of her caste with the fingers of her opposite, unbroken arm.

"Yep. They know."

She can feel him looking at her, waiting for some sort of response. They are silent for a few seconds.

"How'd they take it?" he asks and she sighs again.

Now there's a question. She's still not entirely sure what to make of their reaction. She's confused. Yes, she had not taken them into consideration when making her plans - hadn't thought of much else other than the man currently sat to her right, the man who has placed his hand on top of her knee, thumb working in a slight circular motion because he knows the simplest of touches are what make her feel calm; less alone - but she had been expecting _more_. A greater fight. Real anger, she supposes. Hurt in their eyes.

Aidan was practical. Businessminded. She can accept that because it's him and it's who he is; he's rather like her in that respect. On the surface, at least. She had been touched, of course, by Kate's sentimentality. Her desperation not to lose her sister. But not the passiveness of it or that of Johnny. He acted indifferent, but wasn't indifferent. More lies; another veil. She's tired of it. Tired of trying to figure him out when she feels, really, it should be the other way around. She is his daughter, after all. Shouldn't he be the one trying to get to know her? To get inside her head, however screwed?

Finally, Carla manages to blink herself out of it. She smiles at Nick and takes his hand in her own.

"Well," she replies. "They know now and that's the main thing. The only person we've left to tell is your mother."

Nick chuckles at that and shakes his head at her. They've been procrastinating doing it since Friday. They even declined a very rare and sacred Sunday dinner invite because of it.

Taking the key from the ignition, knowing the time to talk is now and not when they get to whichever restaurant in town it is they decide to treat themselves in (because they like to do it at least once a week, midweek; and they are still in the midst of celebration, looking forward to their new lives together and all the plans that will make about it along the way), Nick places their joint hands in his lap and settles so that he is facing her more.

"You've surprised me, you know," he says softly.

He loses her.

"What?" she asks.

"Devon."

Upon realising what he means, she smiles. She is a little bit disbelieving of what he is suggesting; of his doubt for her.

"Babe, it was your idea," she reminds him.

"Yes, I know. But I didn't think you'd agree with it." A look follows his admission. One of mild shock. "You know, when you suggested moving away, I thought…"

She finishes his train of thought for him. "LA," she says.

He nods and allows Carla to continue. Her voice is faraway, but ever so present. She sounds so sure.

"LA is my escape. I go to LA to get away from this place." She looks out of the window, gestures towards it; the raindrops upon the glass and the dismal, dreary street on their ( _their_ ) immoderate car is parked. It's Manchester in all its glory. It's Weatherfield and it's home, but it doesn't feel that way. It hasn't felt that way for a long time now. She feels oddly, strangely detached from the place in which she lives. The life that she has here. It feels unrecognisable to her and she doesn't like it, not one bit. Carla continues, "I go to get out of me own head, I guess. Sometimes. But I don't want an escape, Nick. Not this time. No, I want a life. A new life. Our life. Me and you. Devon. We've got this."

His smile warms her from the inside out.

"We have." He speaks in a whisper. He then lets out a slight chuckle. "You're a changed woman, Carla."

She shrugs her indifference. The appeal of the cosmopolitan isn't quite what it used to be for her. Not now she's tried and failed it too many times to count. She's tired and she wants to settle, wants to be happy and content and she can't see that happening, can't see her leaving behind her demons, if her new life is merely going to be a parody of her old one, if she's going to be as much a car crash down the south of the country as she is up in the north.

He lets go of her hand. Begins to look more serious. She stares at him as she waits for him to speak.

"So. Baby." From his tone and the term of endearment he has used, she just knows that what is coming next will be a request or an ask for a favour of some sort. In all honesty, she isn't as miffed by this as he is probably expecting her to be. She is instead intrigued and smiling.

"What now?" she asks, eyebrow arched.

He speaks slowly.

"Well, since we _are_ moving to the seaside, have you thought any more about my idea?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Which one? There have been plenty proposed over the last few days."

He mirrors her eyeroll.

"Ha, ha. Very funny." He pauses until he knows that she is definitely listening. "I was talking about the dog one."

Carla sighs.

"Oh, Nick…" she begins, but he cuts her off.

"Carla, please." He implores her with his eyes. "I've always wanted a dog." _I've always wanted kids._

She finds herself shaking with the past resonance that comes with his innocently spoken words. She takes a deep breath, wanting to shake it off, reaching for her seatbelt and attempting to pull it over herself without showing on her face just how much pain the simple act causes her.

"Lunch, Nick." She says this instead of an actual response. "We've only got an hour. We should get a move on."

He cannot help but look disheartened, though she cannot tell whether his disappointment is genuine or whether he is putting it on for dramatic effect. To help sway her into his way of thinking.

"Alright," he says. "But I'm choosing where we go after the disaster of last week."

She laughs heartily. The steel bar; the cold seats. The waiters with their messily tied bows around their necks and the menu that was so cold, Carla swears she could've caught one from it.

That had been a mistake; and one she can readily admit to.

"Deal."


	17. Chapter 17

**Enough**

* * *

 _I'm really gonna miss that place, you know? Means a lot to me._

 _I know. I know._

* * *

He slopes off to the bathroom the first opportunity he gets. She is reluctant to release his hand, lets hers linger over his shoulder as he finally leaves her side, the door shut and shower on. Her heart sinks as she makes her way into the kitchen because she knows what he has gone in there to do. It is what she feels like doing right now, but she won't. She can't. No, she has come this far. Has been this strong; this stupid. She must keep up her front alongside her lie and then maybe, just maybe, they'll get through this unscathed.

She considers surprising him by putting on their tea, but eating is the last thing she feels like doing and she assumes he is the same. So, she retrieves a chilled bottle of wine from the fridge and pours out two large glasses of it, transferring them over to the coffee table on which she puts up her feet, resting her body against the back of the sofa as she waits for him to make a reappearance. He does so half an hour later, with his sweats on and his red eyes she selfishly dares not comment on, and he doesn't say a word. He heavily sits himself down next to her and allows her to crawl into his lap, all apologies and sweet words and promises in relation to the future.

Their future.

She has never believed in anything more than him and his ability to make her happy. To make her feel like she - like they - are all that matter in the world and everything else is irrelevant; insignificant. In the end, she guesses he's right, whilst simultaneously knowing that this would not be the case if he knew the truth. It wouldn't be the case at all and just the thought of that robs her of breath, of clarity and everything that makes her feel safe; secure.

Carla presses a lingering kiss to Nick's cheek, her fingers running through his slightly damp hair as he rests his head against her chest. She is comfy and she is tired. Her arm wears her out most days, but the events of this day in particular have got her concealing yawns, fighting to keep her eyes open. Nick's arms slacken around her as he says the first coherent words to leave his lips since entering the flat.

"We should eat."

She almost groans, their peace interrupted.

"Can you be bothered to cook tonight?" she asks quietly.

He moves so that they are now level and gives her a slight nod, a weak smile. "Yeah. I'm fine."

She often wonders if he forgets that she knows what that really means.

Carla nods. "As long as you're sure."

And to prove that he is, he kisses her.

* * *

As Nick makes use of himself in the kitchen (the words _keeping busy_ spring to mind), Carla takes the laptop and the wine and resolves to do the only thing she knows how to: run.

"Nick?" she asks him, her voice that of childlike innocence, despite her intentions being anything but.

He smiles over at her, a tea towel over his shoulder.

"Yes, my love?"

He really does make her smile.

"Do you remember what we were talking about the other day?"

He laughs a little. "We've spoken about a lot of things recently, Carla."

Whilst what he is saying is true, it doesn't stop her from narrowing her eyes at him. "I meant the whole holiday thing."

Now he's listening; she practically sees his ears prick up at that.

With a hand outstretched towards him, Carla makes her way over to Nick and comes to stand in his arms. He looks down at her with an intrigue in his eyes that pains her. He's going to think she is restless; that she can't settle, won't settle, doesn't want to settle with him. And he'll be wrong. That could not be further from the truth. It's all she wants. It's just that because of her own stupid, reckless actions, achieving it is much more difficult for them - not that Nick is at all aware of this.

"What about it?" he asks quietly.

Her head is pressed to his chest.

"We should do it," she replies. "And soon."

He rubs a hand comfortingly down her back and she hums with contentment.

"How soon?" He can tell there is more to it than that.

"Tomorrow," she mutters into him. He freezes. Reluctantly, she tilts her head to meet his eyes. She speaks with a voice as soft as the way her right hand runs up and down his right arm, settling at the top of it. Then his shoulder; the back of his neck. "Hear me out, yeah? I was just looking online then as you were peeling your spuds and they've got some great last minute deals going on, you know." Usually, money would not be an issue for either of them, but Tracy's 10K is playing at the back of her mind and realistically they need to start saving if they're serious about moving down south. Properties down there are so much more expensive and they are after a minimum of two. "We need a break, Nick. Everything that's happened since Christmas; It's too much. It doesn't feel like we ever have any time to ourselves. We hardly talk about anything other than the sale of the bistro or moving away and I miss us, baby. I really miss just being with you. Only you."

He opens his mouth to interject, but she continues on regardless.

"And I know you're upset. It's okay to be upset. You have every right to be." She gives his chest a firm poke, making sure he is aware of that. "I just think a holiday could really give us a lift, you know? I'm already covered at the factory and you could use this to test Robert. See if he's really up to the mark." Even the mentioning of his name makes her feel sick. God, he better be up to it. There is no alternative. It's not a question as to whether he will be able to take on the task; he'll have to. "And then we can come back here refreshed and happy. Ready to properly plan our future together."

He is silent for a long time afterwards. It's a lot to take in at once.

"Where would we go?" he asks.

"Devon?" She gives a slight laugh, relieved that he seems to be onboard; he is smiling and has taken hold of her hand and she wonders how she ever came to be so lucky with him. He laces his fingers through hers, pulls tight.

"So. Not Blackpool, then?" he teases.

She shakes her head.

"No. I was thinking maybe if we went to Devon, we could see what it's like. Whether it's right for us and what we want it to be." He nods along with her. "But then I was also thinking maybe going abroad wouldn't be a bad idea either…"

Their noses touch. "Like a proper holiday?"

She kisses him because she doesn't know how else to articulate the way he makes her feel.

"Exactly." She hums. "Sun, sea, sand..."

"Sex."

She hums again. "Yes, exactly. You know, we could even take a little trip to LA. You could meet Suzy. I know you're _dying_ to."

He shakes his head, amused. He has had one too many awkward and accidental phone calls with that woman.

"Her words," he replies. "Not mine."

She giggles. Waits a beat before attempting to push her luck as far as she has dared to yet.

"Would you ever consider moving abroad?" she asks him, her choice of words careful.

Abroad is safer. That's her only motivation. Abroad is far, far away; a place where nobody can touch them and there is a much greater chance that the truth will not out. And it can't; she refuses to let it now that they've made it this far.

He smiles softly at her. "I'd consider going anywhere with you."

* * *

 _I decided not to disclose where they actually went, just in case it's mentioned onscreen and I get it wrong. As always, thank you for your continued support. It means ever so much._


	18. Chapter 18

_Just a little something!_

* * *

 **Enough**

* * *

He sent her the picture almost as soon as it got taken. He hadn't wanted it taken. He'd sat in the seat beside Sarah's hospital bed, his new nephew resting peacefully in his arms, and Bethany had gasped suddenly, grabbing his phone from off the side and exclaiming in the quietest voice she could muster, "We so need to send a picture to Carla!"

And then Gail had piped up, "Yes! It's such a shame she couldn't make it. Take a picture, Bethany."

In reality, it wasn't that Carla couldn't make it. She just didn't want to intrude, despite Nick's attempts to assure her of how welcome she is with his family. She is family to them now.

The picture had been taken without his knowledge, before he had even consented. In it, he is looking down at the baby in his arms, the baby whose face is scrunched up slightly as he sleeps, Nick's own face completely out of focus, eyes fixed upon his new nephew only. When he swapped the baby for his phone ten minutes later, he'd immediately emailed the picture to Carla. He hates to admit it, but he had been excited to.

 _Auntie Carla, say hello to our new nephew! He is unnamed as of yet and very sleepy. I can't wait to see you later x_

She hadn't responded. Even at home, her replies about the baby had been minimal. _Yes, he's cute. Of course I will go over and see him. No, I don't want you getting any ideas._ The ideas are hard to stop. He thinks back to this time last year, when there was a baby in existence belonging to him, though he hadn't a clue about him (never _it_ ) at this point. Perhaps things would've turned out differently if he had. The _what ifs_ of the past are as hard to come to terms with as the future _maybes,_ so he keeps quiet for both of their sakes. But she must know what he is thinking, feeling; trying his hardest to conceal.

It is one of his last proper shifts at the bistro, but Carla is still unaware of this, what he hopes will be a, welcome surprise. She sits at the bar with him all afternoon because Aidan apparently doesn't need her help and Michelle isn't available for farewell drinks before she leaves for Spain until at least after four. When Michelle enters and they have their girly discussion, exchanging gifts and laughs and perhaps drinking more than they should given the time of day, Nick keeps his distance. It is only later when he feels arms around his waist that he knows Michelle is gone and Carla is his to tell, "They've named the baby."

Her smile drops slightly at the mention of him, only because he is all Nick seems to have talked about since they returned from Devon in a rush Monday evening. She knows it is understandable and that it is her in the wrong for feeling this way, if such fault can lie with anyone, but she still feels. She feels far too much and she can say nothing about it. She won't allow herself to.

"Oh! It's about time, too," she says.

Nick is holding her hand loosely.

"Harry," he says. "They've called him Harry Platt."

Her next smile is genuine and she feels a pang of something somewhere deep in her chest.

"How lovely."

Her phone beeps in her pocket and she goes to retrieve it, Nick catching sight of her lockscreen as she does so. It's the picture he emailed to her, of himself and Harry. The one she pretended she didn't care about, the one she acted as if she didn't need to have a moment to collect herself after seeing for the first time.

"Ah!" says Carla, having read the message she received. "Your mum's just text me. With another picture, too."

She is laughing as she holds the phone up to him. Harry seems to be sticking his tongue out to the camera, though he is sleeping. "He is always sleeping that boy," Nick chuckles.

Carla nods. "Yes. That's because being alive is very, very exhausting."

She softly rests her head on Nick's shoulder as he has a closer look at the picture. He comes to the realisation that it is the things she doesn't say that he must pay the most attention to because they are the things that mean the most to her.


	19. Chapter 19

_I haven't felt this motivated to write in a long time! Poor Nick :(_

* * *

 **Enough**

* * *

"You're late."

The door clicks shut behind him as he tugs off the damn jacket no one has been able to stop going on about all day. Even Carla had had something to say about it earlier on. _What are you wearing, Nick? Why are you wearing that? Nick, Nick?_ People pecking at his head, disinterested in everything he has to say. He knows he is repetitive. He knows that, at the moment, he does only have one topic of conversation. But it is with good reason. The reason stands from the couch she is sitting on to greet him. Her hair is wet and she is already in her pyjamas. It is late, _he_ is late, and she has spent most of her night without him.

Upon coming to the realisation her words were spoken playfully, Nick accepts Carla's kiss and tugs off his shoes.

"Sorry," he says. "I got caught up at my mum's."

It's not a blatant lie.

Laughing gently to herself, Carla nods as she makes her way back over to where she was sitting. She flops down into her seat unceremoniously and grabs the throw sitting on the arm of the chair. It may be April, but there is still a slight chill about the place. She throws it over her knees.

"Yeah, I know," she replies. "Sarah's been round. Didn't she tell you?"

From Nick's mouth escapes a mere, "Yeah."

He is distracted, wondering into the kitchen. His eyes fall upon the bags of food shopping he bought this morning, before the rest of the day happened. He finds it difficult to remember the exchange he had in the shop now, the exchange he shared with Erica with no malice, no awkwardness. And he is clueless to what it is he actually bought. All he knows is that when Carla left for work hours earlier, she made him promise to cook for her in the evening. Their week long separation had her pining for his culinary skills, the skills which she so obviously lacks, and she made no secret of this.

Then again, the only reason he remembers this is because she text him a cheeky reminder. Used an emoji. Two kisses. He remembers because it was the first message he saw when he pulled out his phone earlier on, leaning against his gran's salon, considering calling the only person who could possibly understand, if only he weren't so much in denial that he felt there was nothing to tell her at all.

Carla senses that he is somewhere faraway, but it doesn't stop her spinning around where she is sitting to look at him and declaring, "You are looking at Weatherfield's newest godmother to be! Blimey," she mutters to herself. "That's not something I ever thought I'd be hearing myself saying. And with that tone…"

Nick has made quick work of removing the food items from the carrier bags they were held in.

"You'll be great," he mutters, but Carla has had enough of being dismissed. She gets up and follows him into the kitchen, staring at him to catch his attention, but he doesn't lift his eyes from the counter, not even once.

"It's a bit late to be making tea now, babe," she says softly. "We can just order something in."

He throws her a smile he definitely does not feel. "No, it's alright. I said I'll do it now and I will."

She takes a step closer to him.

"Honestly, Nick. I've got the menus out and everything." She gestures over to where they are lined up on the coffee table. Again, he does not lift his eyes from what he is doing. "All we have to do is - "

"I _said_ \- " And the sternness of his voice does shock her a little. She is not used to Nick being so short with her. " - I'll do it."

"Okay. Whatever you say." She laughs a little; shrugs it off.

With an uneasy smile, Carla then takes a seat at the island and holds her hands in her lap. She watches as Nick busies himself around the kitchen; unpacking this, peeling that. She might as well be somewhere else. Her presence is irrelevant to him when he is stuck in his own little world, doing one thing and then another. One thing at a time. It's as if that's all he can process and she does pick up on it, but she doesn't know how to address it without sounding paranoid and like she's overreacting.

"How was your day?" she asks.

She manages to get one word out of him. "Quiet."

That couldn't be more wrong. There's this buzzing in his head and it's loud. And it won't stop. It's a distraction from him being allowed to get on with his normal, every day life and it has gotten louder and louder the more time has passed. Frustration is something Nick has always found quite manageable. Until recently. Recently, since… things changed, it's often led to anger. This buzz, it's not unfamiliar to him. He craves human interaction. He knows he does. Spending a week alone has done him no good, not that he would ever admit to it aloud. Let alone to Carla. She had thought she was doing him a favour by sending him away and he wants her to keep on thinking that.

"Yours?"

She sighs.

"Oh, it was alright. It was made a lot better by my afternoon smoothie." As he turns to light the oven, she comes up behind him and wraps her arms around his waist. He is startled by the gesture and takes longer than usual to relax into her. He does not place his hands over hers. He merely takes the comfort of her pressed against his back and smiles, genuinely this time, when she presses a kiss to his cheek for being so sweet. They had visited the smoothie place he had purchased from only once before and she'd fallen in love with it there and then. He is always so thoughtful towards her. It never seizes to burst her heart. She rests her head against his shoulder. "Thank you, baby."

He takes a breath. "Don't mention it."

He doesn't feel like talking or touching or anything at all, but she continues regardless. "And I'm sorry about your restaurant, you know. I know you really had your heart set on it." It is at this point her hands trail up his chest, a motion he is usually only happy to welcome this time making him feel nothing but discomfort. Her hand is over his heart and he just hopes she can't feel how it is hammering beneath her skin, in need of an escape. "They'll be other restaurants," she attempts to reassure him. She presses multiple kisses to his cheeks, but he feels nothing at all.

"I'm sure there will be," he says quietly.

* * *

They eat and she can tell something is wrong, but he gives nothing away. They opt to spend the rest of their evening curled up in front of mindless television. It's warm beneath blankets and Carla is very nearly asleep on Nick's chest, one leg resting over both of his, when he finally feels like he wants to speak. Talk her through his day like he does every other night, except this one feels different and with very good reason, but he keeps quiet about that

"I invited Gran round before," he admits to her. He speaks quietly. "For tea, I mean. I know it's your flat - "

" _Our_ flat." She shakes her head at him before pressing a kiss to his nose he almost groans at. "Idiot."

"Well, yeah. Whatever." He sighs deeply. "But I feel guilty now for not asking you if I could. I just didn't think." Which seems to be the story of his life. Doing first; thinking second.

Carla looks up at him, really looks. "You're not a child, Nick. You don't need permission, least of all mine. This is your home. And, just for the record, I'd have loved to have had her here."

"Good." A short reply.

Carla runs her hand hesitantly up and down his arm in what she hopes is a comforting manner.

"You're not okay, are you?"

She buries herself deeper into his chest. He mumbles into her hair above the sound of the television blaring, "Yeah, I am."

She doesn't buy it.

"It's losing the restaurant, isn't it? It's really got to you."

The TV combined with the buzz in his head makes for too noise much at once and he has to physically get up from the sofa, Carla missing his warmth almost immediately, to switch it off at the plug. The actual plug. Carla pretends not to be surprised.

Nick scrunches his face up a bit. "Sorry. I can't be doing with that shit."

She nods. What they had been watching was metely the news.

"It's okay, you know. To be disappointed. I'm disappointed, too."

She gets up onto her feet to kiss his cheek again. She wraps two arms around his waist, has to wait a moment too long for him to return the hug. "We'll find another," she mumbles into his chest. "I promise you. I mean, there's no real rush, is there? We only have the rest of our lives."

He squeezes her tightly, tighter than she had been expecting. His hands lock around her, as usual, and suddenly the world starts to make a little more sense again. "Yeah. Of course we have. I'm really sorry, Carla." And his voice sounds so broken. To her, it's as if his confidence has been shattered, but it's more than that. So much more. But it's too late now. He's already convinced himself she won't understand. He doesn't expect her to understand. Nobody should have to understand.

She gazes up at him and replies, "No apologies. Not over. Okay?"

They share a long kiss before he replies, "Okay."


	20. Chapter 20

**Enough**

* * *

Nick remembers telling Carla a lot of things over the past year. Things he thought were helpful to her at times when she was helpless. Scared. Running away from her problems is a trait she has often thought he dislikes, but that isn't true. He doesn't dislike it, would be a hypocrite to dislike it, because he does the same, only more literally. When he's moving, active, his mind is elsewhere. It is not on any problems he might have: it is simply on the track in front of him. The goal that he is attempting to achieve.

He doesn't run the Red Rec five times. In fact, he hardly runs at all. His talk with David does little to ease his troublesome mind. It's out there now. He has verbalised what, this morning, were only thoughts inside his head. Dark thoughts.

A life without Carla is unimaginable. But a life with Carla, a life with a woman so full of life, losing light within her eyes with each day that passes, constantly on edge, waiting for him to snap, for something to go wrong, always wrong... Well, he'd be in the wrong to trap her in such a way. A marriage of fear and futile hope. No hope at all. She deserves better than that, better than him. She deserves the world and all the happiness within it, the happiness he knows he cannot provide her with when he is only half the man she claims to love.

She is asleep by the time he makes his way home. He's been so snappy with her today; so unlike himself. She's noticed, of course. She notices it all. By the looks of things, his sudden stress is a surprise to her. After all, he no longer works, has no real kind of responsibility in any medium a person could have.

And that's the problem. The problem that is staring her in the face, the one she doesn't quite want to admit to being aware of, however vaguely.

The film she wanted to watch with him is playing quietly on the television she is slummed in front of, dozing on the sofa, that purple blanket she seems to love more than any other somewhere at her feet. His keys are placed onto the island in the kitchen ever so quietly, his trainers removed at the door, his coat following their path off of his body.

He walks into the living room, the light dim as he crouches by her body. It's quiet, quieter still once he has muted the film she had previously been watching. Alone. If he weren't in such a state, he's sure he'd feel guilty. When Friday became film night, he is not aware. (In the same way that Saturday became date night; Sunday the day they do nothing at all.) But this is the first one he has shrugged off in the entire time it has been a tradition, their tradition, and whilst Carla appeared to be okay with it, he knows she won't have been. Not really. She'll have missed his mutterings under his breath, the way he 'distracts' her during the important scenes, winds her up to the point where he finds his face being full of pillow and not a lot else.

She's so beautiful when she sleeps. It makes him ache; it always has. The first time he ever bore witness to it, she was on a sofa not so dissimilar to this one, covered by a blanket quite alike to the one she is currently clutching to her chest, and he fell slightly that night. It's the day he started and he's never stopped since. It's funny to think of – it had been the first date and he was already so far gone. The way Carla sleeps isn't pretty in the conventional way by any means. She drools, she hogs the covers, she makes these little groaning noises as she dreams, claws at him sometimes when nightmares come for her and all he can seem to do to help is hold her.

But when she sleeps, he knows she's safe. As content as she can be. And that's good enough for Nick. With baited breath, he leans down and moves her hair gently out of her face. She has the slightest of smiles pulling at her lips. He's unsure whether this is because she is aware of his presence or whether she is pleasantly dreaming. And if she is, he prays to God it is not of the future. The future that is more than likely not to happen. Devon; a dog; a bar; a marriage. Walks by the sea and a balcony on which they can drink in the evenings.

God, he won't even touch alcohol for the fear it'll push him too far, for the fear of something else taking over, an uncontrollable force he is powerless in stopping.

He's pathetic. Weak. And he looks at her, and she's so strong. She's everything he isn't and finds himself aspiring to be. His finger brushes against her cheek. Not marrying this woman, leaving this woman broken and humiliated, confused and scared and lonely with no idea of what's going on, makes him feel physically sick. He swallows back a lump in his throat and all he manages to let out is a whispered, "I love you." A kiss to her head.

Her hand is clutching his hand before he is able to pull away and she is opening her eyes slowly, taking him in, her smile bright despite the disturbance.

"Nick," she murmurs.

She is squeezing his hand tightly, sitting up, taking in her surroundings.

"Where've you been?"

"Sorry," he says. He looks to the television. Disappointment is in his eyes. "I've missed the film."

"It's okay."

His skin is freezing against her own and she is staring at him. Wondering why he is keeping so much distance between them, but not having the courage to ask him why aloud.

"How long did you run for?" she asks and she is genuinely curious. It hurts him.

"Oh, not as long as earlier."

She smirks. "What a letdown."

Budging over on the sofa, Nick reluctantly takes a seat beside her. She is still holding his hand and uses it as leverage to put his arm around her shoulders, to lean into him, wrap her arms around his, wanting to breathe into him some much needed warmth. She nuzzles her nose into the collar of his shirt and smiles.

He is focused on the empty wine bottle directly in his view.

"I missed you, baby," she whispers. She is in a very affectionate mood today, loving beyond belief, and he knows he shouldn't be complaining. It's just that all she manages to do by loving him as fiercely as she does is inspire dread into his gut. He feels false; everything is pretend. What he feels for her is real, but the words of a doctor could rip all they share from beneath them with an ease Nick only wishes he could possess.

He kisses her head, finds his fingers entangling in hair he knows she would've already washed, had he been home sooner.

"We can watch a film tomorrow," he tells her.

"I don't care about the film," she replies, burying further into him. "I care about you."

His hands move down her back and he rubs it reassuringly. It pains him to reply, "I care about you," because he does. But she won't see it that way. Nick knows Carla. He loves her and he knows her, and calling off this wedding, admitting he is not okay, that they will not be okay, is everything she won't want to hear.

She won't handle it.

Being left alone. Without support or comfort or someone to just be there in the silence.

He's wrong, of course. He doesn't know of her desire to love unconditionally. That's who she is; it's what she does. If she knew, if she were told, she would be there without question. Journeys to the hospital and handholding in reception. Asking the consultant questions and taking care of it all. He wouldn't have to worry about a thing.

He won't trust her to be okay because he can't believe he will be, not even in the future, distant or other.

The problem is never her and it is always him.

Carla leans in for a kiss, asks to go to bed, and he forgets for a night. Forgets he won't always have this luxury, this woman. Forgets how messed up he is in ways people are unable to see. And never will.

He likes to think he's good at hiding it.

He likes to think a lot of things and most of them are simply not true.


	21. Chapter 21

_This is it! The final chapter of Enough. I want to thank everyone for their kind words and for reading this over the past couple of months. It honestly means the world to me and you'll never know how grateful I truly am. I'm not gonna stop writing Carla and Nick just because... well, they ended in a way that can only be described as shocking. I'm going to carry on. And I may carry on with a continuation-esque thing if I feel there's reason to in upcoming scenes, so be on the lookout for that. In the meantime, thank you all so, so much for reading and reviewing. I really hope you enjoy (if that's even the correct word) this last chapter!_

* * *

 **Enough**

* * *

He wants to talk and she isn't there, and it's too late. It's all too late.

He goes to the flat. Gets no answer. This isn't what surprises him; it's the eeriness of the knock. Like inside is empty and the angry part of him, the part that is overwhelming, is glad. Maybe she feels as empty as he does, as hurt and upset and alone. Maybe she's ran away; maybe she's reverted to type. The type he can spew however much nonsense he likes about to stick the knife in, to make her feel worse than she ever thought possible, but all it manages to do is remind him of what he's lost. Not only her, not only them, but his sense of self. To throw all she is back in her face when he only knows half a story, half of the life they shared for half of the time they had been together, is overwhelming wrong.

He has this constant knot in his stomach only she can untie. Maybe now he can begin to understand how it feels to be her.

After a few minutes have passed, he pulls out his key, the keyring a trinket she bought him for Christmas. _Nicky_. He blinks away tears and lets himself in. He is unprepared for what he is met with. The place is almost empty and it is not like before. There are no boxes or remotes or bits of food and magazines – there are no signs of life. She is not moving in this time; she has already moved out.

He pauses at the door. Looking forward, he catches his reflection in the television screen. He has come directly from the gym. He looks a state; he is a state. Slowly, he closes the door behind him and walks into the kitchen. His footsteps echo.

On the table, there are suitcases, open so he can see what's inside. His things have been packed into them neatly, dare he say lovingly. Clothes and shoes and cologne and his watch and his books and everything. It's all there. Everything kept at his home from home, and he can't even look at it. He can barely see.

He places both hands on the kitchen counter to steady himself and breathes heavily in through his nose and out through his mouth. It hurts. God, it hurts more than he can explain.

She's really gone.

He didn't even hear her out.

Gasping, he approaches his things, stumbles towards them. He can see now what he didn't before – a frame, an letter missing an envelope, a ring.

He has to calm himself before he dares touch any of the three. The ring is taken first, held flat in the palm of his hand. White gold. So delicate, especially compared to his own. He's weak. Because he will, and he knows he will, take it with him and place it in the box they bought it in, next to his own, ripped off in a rage, but not thrown. Not lost. _Kept_.

He carefully pockets it and takes a deep breath. The frame. The wooden frame and the monochrome picture. _We're supposed to be having a happy Nick day!_ He feels sick. He has to take a step back. He can see now, see it all; all that happened that day. Getting Liz to take a stupid, insincere picture just to wind Tracy up. To get one over on her; one nil to Carla. That poisonous bitch knew he was a fool. He is a fool. He's a fool because there is no element of that picture that is stupid. That is not genuine. His fingers trace her smile and he aches, he almost whimpers. He wonders if she'll ever smile again like that. Hates himself for wondering if she even deserves to.

The first line of the letter is _Nick._

 _Nick._

He reads on with baited breath and every word takes him further and further away from her, from the secret hopes he had in coming here in the first place.

 _I've left. For real this time. And I'm not coming back, so don't worry. I wouldn't do that to you._

 _Here's your stuff. I think I've got everything. I packed in a rush. If I've taken any of your stuff, or anything that was ours, and you want it back, tell Johnny or Michelle or someone you can stand. I can get it back to you._

 _I've gone to Devon. To our cottage. I know it's half in your name and half of the money we used to buy it is yours, but here's the name of my solicitor —_

And she's given a name, an address, a number.

 _We can sort it out along with the annulment. I'll buy it off you. All you have to do is name a price._

 _For now, you can use the flat. It is yours in everything other than name._

 _You can bin the frame if you want to. I took the other one, the one before I ruined us. When we happy. In case you were wondering where it was. I don't know, Nick. It's up to you._

 _I mean everything I ever said to you._

 _And I am sorry. I want you to know that if nothing else. I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't want us to hurt each other._

* * *

"You are going to hurt me, Carla. And I am going to hurt you. But you know what?"

"What?"

"I don't care."

* * *

 _I'm sorry I wasn't enough._

He's the sorry one. He doesn't think he's ever going to stop being sorry.


End file.
